


When Winter Comes

by StarkatHeart



Series: A Lesson in Domesticity [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Superfamily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkatHeart/pseuds/StarkatHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Stark, son of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, the Amazing Spider-Man, Avenger, college student, boyfriend,  is beginning to feel the strain of his responsibilities. Tony and Steve, though happily getting their marriage back together, face serious questions about their future. Clint and Natasha are having problems of their own. And, oh yeah, there might just be a crazy sniper from the Cold War on the loose in Manhattan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stop a bank robbery on the way to school? Yeah, sure, no problem. Just another day in the life of Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Come to think of it, he’d never really resolved that issue. OH WELL), AKA Spider-Man. Peter leapt out of the way of gunfire.

            “Who robs a bank in broad daylight?” he asked aloud. “Criminal Pro-Tip: Use the cover of Darkness. Think: I am the Night.” Then again, the banks were only open until five. Maybe these guys were on to something. Peter flipped over the head of one robber, pulling off his ski mask on the way. He landed on the opposite wall, staring down the ugly bald dude he’d just revealed. “Oh, yeah, I see the need for the mask now. Yeesh.” Peter jumped away just as the bald dude shouted in rage and brought up his gun, firing.

            Ok, playtime was over. He had physics in about ten minutes. Not to mention those stray bullets might just hit one of the many civilians hiding under the desks. Peter threw out some web, grabbing the gun and yanking it out of the burglar’s hands. Peter did the same to another guy on his right. The two panicked and started to run, but Peter had that covered. He swung around and wrapped them both up in web, safely stopping the bank robbery. The citizens in the bank cheered, and Peter bowed to each side dramatically.

            “Thank you, thank you. For this win, I’d like to thank SHIELD, a radioactive spider, my paren—aw, shit,” Peter swore as he turned. He’d forgotten the last guy, who now held a gun to the head of a squirming dude in a business suit.

            “STAY AWAY!” the guy in the ski mask shouted. “JUST STAY AWAY!” Peter held up his hands.

            “Yeah, you got it bro. Just stay cool, man, we can work this out. Nobody’s got to get hurt,” Peter said, but even as he spoke, he shot web out towards the gun and grabbed it out of the man’s hands before he could react. “Now really, how did you not see that one coming?” The robber, predictably, started to run. Peter sighed. He was _so_ going to be late to class. He ran out the doors after him, looking for a good spot to put his web and take to the sky as he went. He reached up, and was about to swing off when he heard someone call out,

            “Spider-Man!” he looked around, only to have a flash go off in his face.

            “Agh— _jeez_ , are you serious right now?” Peter asked, blinking rapidly. Once he’d blinked away the spots in front of his eyes, he could see a girl standing there, maybe his age or so. She had long red hair and bright green eyes, and a camera with the type of giant flash that Peter could have sworn they stopped making in the 1920s. “Don’t people usually use their cell phones these days? And—crap, where’d he go…” Peter looked around.

            “Spider-Man, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, I’d like to talk—I have a _business_ proposition, of sorts, to make, and—” the girl was saying, but Peter wasn’t listening.

            “Uh, kind of busy right now! Call me or something,” Peter shouted as he swung off.

            “Call you _how_?” the girl shouted after him, sounding aggravated, but Peter really didn’t have time to worry about that. From a higher point, he could see more, and if he was _lucky_ he could find that thief…ah, yes. About a block away he found his man. Peter kept swinging until he was on top of the guy, and from there, all he had to do was fall. The guy fell to the ground with a satisfying,

            “ _ARGH!_ ” and Peter had a nice, soft landing. He tied the guy’s hands behind his back with web before getting up and forcing the thief to his feet. He looked over at the people standing at the nearby hot dog stand, who had comically frozen, mid-action, to stare at the scene.

            “Bank robber,” Peter explained. “Wouldn’t stay put. I know, right? Thieves today. Anyway, it’s just down the road that way, police should be there in a minute. Mind taking him for a walk for me? Watch out for his bite though, I think he’s got rabies. Thanks!” Peter handed off the man to the owner of the hot dog stand, who still stood gaping, and swung away.

            “JARVIS, what time is it?” Peter asked his suit. Sure, it might only be fabric, but it was _special_ fabric. It was (mostly) bullet-proof fabric. It was fabric containing flexible electronic circuitry. It was super advanced stuff, and Peter was very proud of it. He was even more in love with his suit ever since he’d installed JARVIS.

            “The time is 09:04, Master Peter,” JARVIS replied.

            “Shit.”

            “Indeed, sir.”

 

            Five minutes later, Peter had changed back into his normal clothes and was running into his physics lecture, doing his best to duck into the back without being noticed. Unfortunately, the day was looking less and less bright for Peter Stark (Peter Stark-Rogers? Peter Rogers-Stark? Screw it—Peter _Parker_ ).

            “—now, if we use another variable in this equation, we can see clearly that being the son of an industrialist ‘ _super hero’_ does not excuse tardiness, Mr. Stark,” the lecturer, Doctor Octavius, scolded. Man, he really hated it when teachers moved up with you through the grades. Especially when teachers moved up with you to a new school entirely. Unfair.

            “It won’t happen again, Professor,” Peter said, making the guilt evident in his voice.

            “See that it doesn’t,” Doc Ock, as Peter and his classmates had affectionately nicknamed him in high school, said sternly before continuing on with his lecture. Peter was glad that a little snide Snape-esque comment was all that he got for being late. Peter did his best to be on time for Doc Ock’s lectures—he’d liked him in high school, after all—but for any of his other classes? Well, Peter didn’t think he’d been on time once. Most of the lecturers didn’t notice—the lectures were usually pretty big—or they just didn’t care. Peter was grateful for that. He could keep his grades up, sure, but showing up on time was another issue entirely.

            When General Physics let out (and, really, Peter hadn’t learned much of anything—200 levels were _so_ basic), Peter was just relieved. He still had a homework assignment to finish for Calc III that he hadn’t gotten around to the night before because, oh yeah, some Hydra agents had stuck a bomb under the city and the Avengers made _Peter_ go trudging through the tunnels to find it. He _had_ , of course, and he’d disarmed it, but it had been late when he finished. Peter looked out onto the campus. It was too cold to sit under a tree and do his work—he’d have to go to the café or the library or back to his and Harry’s apartment if he didn’t want to get frostbite.

            “Late again, huh, bug boy?” Gwen asked, teasing him. Peter turned around. He’d almost completely forgotten Gwen was also in that lecture. He smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hello.

            “Gwen, you are a scientist. You know as well as I do that _spiders_ aren’t bugs. They’re _arachnids_ ,” Peter said, exasperated. Gwen grinned.

            “Oh I know, but you always get so annoyed when I call you bug boy. Has anybody ever told you how cute you are when you’re annoyed, bug boy?” she asked. Peter kissed her, longer this time. He could never get enough of Gwen, could never get enough of her strawberry scented shampoo, or the soft curves of her hips, or those tender lips. He loved her smile, her wit—he loved everything about her.

            “No,” Peter said when they broke apart. “But I will note that for future reference.” Gwen smiled, and she gave him one last kiss before removing her arms from around his neck. Peter looked at his watch. “Ok, I really hate to do this, but I have Calc III in an hour and I haven’t finished the homework yet, so I really need to sit down somewhere and do that now. Can we do dinner tonight?”

            “Sure,” Gwen replied, backing away. “I have to get to Organic Chem, anyway. Seven, at your place?”

            “Seven would be perfect,” Peter said. Gwen left, and Peter was not ashamed to admit that he watched her go. He loved Gwen. He hated Tuesdays.

            Peter made his way over to the library, which was crowded as usual. He just _had_ to pick a university where students actually _studied_. He found a desk in the corner of the third floor that miraculously was free, and he settled in with that calculus assignment. It wasn’t so bad. The calculus was easy enough, and it was actually enjoyable now that he had the _time_ to—

            That was when a crazy guy dressed in some beetle-looking costume crashed through the window, and Falcon flew in after him. The beetle fired off two rockets, which of course missed Falcon, but hit other areas of the library, blasting whole shelves over and sending students screaming and running for cover.

            Yeah, it was definitely a Tuesday.

 

            Peter didn’t finish his assignment, and in fact missed Calculus all together. He’d had to duck behind some bookshelves to pull off his plain clothes and reveal the Spider-Man suit underneath. Falcon pretty much had the situation under control, but as ever, Peter’s webs were useful in the whole tying-up thing at the end of the fight. The library, unfortunately, was largely collateral damage. The third floor was definitely going to be closed for repairs for a while.

            Peter felt exhausted. He managed to go to his photography class, for which he actually _had_ completed the assignment. He practically slept through class. He didn’t hear a word the teacher said until the end, when the professor mentioned something about a ‘showcase’ and ‘next week’, which woke him up a little. Was that in the syllabus? Showcase? Presumably, he had to have photographs ready for that—did he? No, probably not. Not enough, anyway. Peter gathered up his bag and shrugged it onto his shoulder, leaving the small lecture room.

            What could he take pictures of? New York life? That was probably what literally everyone else in his class was doing. He was going to have to come up with something more creative than that. Did the collection need to be themed? He was going to have to check the syllabus online when he got back.

            “Hey! Stark!” shouted a voice. It had taken Peter a while, but he had learned to ignore this sort of interruption. Now that he was ‘out’ as the son of Iron Man and Captain America, being harassed about it was a daily thing. People wanted a picture or an autograph. Girls he’d never met propositioned him for dates (and plenty more), and so did guys. Everyone wanted to have him at their party, everyone wanted to be his friend. Peter found that he stuck to the old Hawthorn crowd much more than he thought he would, simply because they understood—and also because fifteen of his twenty-five former classmates attended ESU. Peter ignored the voice and kept walking.

            “Stark! Hey! Wait up!” it called out persistently. He felt a hand on his bicep and he jerked back instinctively, swiveling around and barely managing to avoid using a fighting stance. The girl who had grabbed him looked just as startled as he felt. “Oh, sorry. Personal boundaries, right.” Peter squinted at her. She looked oddly familiar. She had fire engine red hair and bright green eyes, and was carrying a camera—oh. She was the girl from earlier.

            “Do I know you?” Peter asked.

            “No, but—” the girl said, but Peter was already walking away. “Hey!”

            “Look, I’m sure you’re great. And you’re gorgeous. But I’ve had a long day, so—” Peter started, but the girl, who had caught up to him, looked at him with indignation and maybe a hint of disgust, based on the crinkling of her nose.

            “Oh, _Jesus_ , I’m not _hitting_ on you, Stark,” the girl said. “I was hoping I could get a copy of that photograph you took for today.” Peter blinked. Oh, right. The professor always went through and shared their photos with the class, commenting on the composition and style and whatever else. It could get embarrassing, if you were sloppy. Peter stopped walking and opened up his backpack, He reached in, grabbed a copy of the photo (he always had more than one, in case of super villain attacks destroying the first), and handed it over. He zipped the bag back up.

            “Oh, that was prompt. Thanks,” the girl said. She stuck out a hand. “I’m MJ, by the way. Well, Mary-Jane. Mary-Jane Watson, but my friends call me MJ.” Peter took the offered hand.

            “Peter,” he said. “But you obviously know that already.” He nodded towards the picture. “Iron Man fan?” He’d taken the picture over the weekend, while out and about with the Avengers. It was a shot from below, in broad daylight. Iron Man was flying, unwittingly, right below a V of birds headed south for the winter.

            “Not anymore than anyone else,” MJ said. “But I love how you’ve juxtaposed nature with machine, and the angle is really unique—not something I’ve seen with most photos of Iron Man. How did you take this, by the way?” Peter grinned.

            “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he said. MJ rolled her eyes.

            “Fine, keep it to yourself. But what was your inspiration for the theme?” MJ asked. “That, at least, you can tell me.” She looked at him expectantly, her pretty green eyes locked on his. Peter just laughed.

            “There wasn’t one. I mean, it did _conveniently_ turn out to have a man versus nature theme, yeah, but that wasn’t why I took it. I was making fun of Dad. He had no idea there were birds like ten feet above him, and I told him he was going to get coated in bird poop if he wasn’t careful. He doesn’t normally fly that low in the sky,” Peter explained. He shrugged his backpack on. If MJ was disappointed by his answer, she didn’t let on. In fact, judging by the way her lips curled up in one corner, he’d say she was rather amused.

            “Well, intentional or not, it’s a great shot,” MJ said. “Are you doing more pictures of Iron Man for the showcase?”

            “Uh, I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been kind of busy. I forgot we _had_ a showcase. It feels too early in the semester,” Peter said.

            “I know, I can’t believe midterms are coming up already,” MJ groaned. “You won’t _believe_ the work I have for all my journalism classes, on _top_ of what I do for the paper as an extra-curricular. Oh, but you’re a science major or something, aren’t you? I bet you have it worse.”

            “Applied Physics,” Peter said. “And electrical engineering. Double major. Yeah, my schedule’s a little pinched.” He grimaced. He really didn’t want to think about midterms. His academic subjects might be easy, but they were only easy if he could keep up with the assignments, which he hadn’t entirely been doing lately. His gig as Spider-Man didn’t leave him much wiggle room.

            “Ouch,” MJ said, looking slightly horrified.

            “It’s go big or go home in my family,” Peter joked.

            “Yeah I’ll bet. Well, I didn’t mean to take up your time—I was just going to go grab a coffee. So I’ll see you later; unless you wanted to come with?” MJ asked. Peter looked at his watch. It was only four o’clock, and he was done with class for the day.

            “I could use some coffee, actually,” Peter said. MJ smiled.

            “Cool,” she said. They started towards the campus coffee shop, which was definitely _not_ a Starbucks. It was run by the student’s union instead, standing in defiance of the corporation. The few students who worked there were some of the only people who ever gave Peter dirty looks. He often heard mutterings about ‘corporate America’ and the disgusting ‘military industrial complex’ and the like whenever he stepped in the shop. But they made good coffee, so Peter did his best to shrug it off.

            “So what are _you_ doing for the showcase?” Peter asked.

            “Trying to steal my ideas, Stark?” MJ replied playfully.

            “Yes. Absolutely, yes. I’m desperate.”

            MJ laughed. Peter grinned. Well, maybe he’d made a new friend. Maybe Tuesdays weren’t quite so bad after all.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            He hadn’t gotten used to this just yet, this early morning quiet. It had been years (nineteen of them, to be precise) since he and Steve had been able to get up for the day at their leisure. As it turned out, Steve was not nearly so insistent on having breakfast everyday at seven in the morning when Peter wasn’t home. Steve, in fact, wasn’t particularly a natural morning person, a fact that Tony had forgotten over the years. It seemed so natural for Steve to get up and make pancakes and coffee in the morning, and so oddly reversed to still be in bed with him at nine. Not that Tony was complaining. Far from it—it was just different. New. They’d only ever really had two years together without Peter, and they hadn’t been two _stable_ years by any means. This was new territory to explore, and Tony was enjoying every minute.

            Of course, he’d be enjoying every minute a lot more if he wasn’t starting to feel all of his sixty-three years, and _wow_ did he not want to think about that number. He thought about it anyway. _Sixty-three_. He was getting up there. He looked at the face of his still-sleeping husband, his blond-haired Adonis. Steve was forty-seven, heck, Steve was _one hundred and seventeen_ , but he didn’t look a day older than twenty-five. Tony had felt like he was robbing the cradle a bit when they’d first gotten together, but _now_? Now the age difference just looked ridiculous. Some days Tony felt like a weird version of Hugh Hefner, and that was not a nice thought. Steve stirred, and Tony ran a hand through his husband’s hair as his eyes fluttered open.

            “Morning,” Tony said softly. Steve gave him a sleepy smile. He yawned.

            “G’morning Tony,” he said, stretching a bit. “You been up long?”

            “No, not really,” Tony said, continuing to thread his hands through his husband’s hair. Steve’s hair was so _soft_. Not like Tony’s. Tony’s hair was a bit more stiff, prone to sticking up at odd angles. Steve’s hair always laid flat, and felt like silk.

            “Mm,” Steve said. “So, what’s on the schedule for today?”

            “Well, it’s Tuesday, so, nothing, unless Godzilla comes to knock down the city,” Tony said. Steve chuckled.

            “Don’t even joke about that,” he said. “The minute you joke about it, it’ll happen.” Steve turned over onto his stomach, rolling half on top of Tony, one arm on either side of his husband. “I’ve got some better ideas for today than saving New York from Godzilla attacks.” He leaned down and captured Tony’s lips. Tony just melted right into it. They had only been back together for four months, having been separated for _eight_ months before that. Tony had—and he knew Steve had too—been celibate for that entire period. Eight months. Celibate. _Tony Stark_. It didn’t even compute. They had a lot of lost time to make up for, and with Peter moved out of the house, it was a lot easier to make up for said time. Except for one little thing. Tony was _sixty-three_. His husband, physically at least, was no more than twenty-five. Certainly not for the first time in his life, but definitely more frequently now than ever, Tony Stark could not keep up with his husband.

            Tony wished he could enjoy this more, or enjoy this _properly_ , but it just wasn’t happening. He could feel how much _Steve_ was enjoying their little make-out session. Yet when Steve snaked a hand down Tony’s body and past the band of his boxers, he didn’t find what he was looking for, exactly. Steve broke off their kiss. Tony refused to blush, refused to be embarrassed.

            “Is everything ok?” Steve asked, genuine concern apparent in his voice and his bright blue eyes. Of course he would be concerned. This wasn’t exactly the first time this had happened, but it was certainly the first time it had happened without being immediately preceded by, uh, fun times.

            “Yeah, just fine, just—give me a minute,” Tony said. Tony was _not_ embarrassed.

            “Am I hurting you somehow?” Steve asked, entirely unconvinced. Tony sighed, sitting up. Steve moved aside, getting off of him. Tony rubbed his temple.

            “No, Steve, we were just making out, you weren’t hurting me,” he said. Well, at least if someone was witness to the ultimate humiliation of Tony Stark, it was Steve. Steve had a light grip on his arm, and was running his thumb back and forth soothingly over his skin.

            “Then what is it?” Steve asked softly. “Is it Peter? Are you worried about Peter? Because I’m not, Tony. He’s doing _so well_ at school. I know he loves it there.” Tony shook his head. Steve’s inability to comprehend the situation for what it was just made this even more embarrassing.

            “No, Steve, it’s not Peter. It’s…this. We just did this last night,” Tony said at last. Steve didn’t quite catch on. He looked perplexed.

            “But it’s morning now,” he said.

            “I _know_ ,” Tony said, trying his best not to whine. “But I’m not sixteen anymore—not that you knew me when I was sixteen but you get the point. Hell, I’m not even forty-five anymore. I’m _sixty-three_ , Steve. And really feeling it right about now.”

            “Oh,” Steve said, then he laid back down, tugging Tony with him. “That’s ok. We can just relax. I’ll get up and make us breakfast in a bit.” Steve smiled at him, and that smile was so loving, so understanding, that it made Tony’s heart leap, but not with love—with panic.

            “But you’re still—here, I can—” Tony reached down, but Steve caught his wrist and shook his head.

            “That’s ok, Tony,” he said.

            “But—”

            “It’s _fine_ , Tony,” Steve said, but Tony still tried to move his hand down. Steve got up off the bed and stretched. “I think I’ll go make us breakfast now. Pancakes and bacon sound good to you?” Tony’s stomach did a sickened little flop.

            “Yeah,” he said faintly. “Just don’t forget the coffee.” Steve chuckled.

            “If I ever forget the coffee, please rush me to the hospital for my memory problems,” he said. Tony wanted to laugh at the joke as Steve left the room, but he couldn’t. His mind was racing with panic.

            Tony was getting older. Steve wasn’t. This was not new information. Tony wouldn’t be able to keep up with Steve physically as he got older. This was not new information. But Steve would _need_ someone to keep up with him. This shouldn’t be new information, but it somehow was. Steve was physically _twenty-five_ , and it was looking like he _always would be_. Was Tony going to ask Steve to stay completely celibate for however long Tony lived past the age of eighty or so? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to take care of him in his old age, like a dedicated _son_? Was Tony really going to ask Steve to stay with him until he was old and decrepit? And was Tony really going to ask Steve to stick around and watch while he withered away and eventually died? Facing his own mortality, well, that was horrifying enough. But could he make _Steve_ face his mortality? Steve, who had already lived through the loss of his entire world?

            Tony couldn’t bear the thought. And he knew that once it finally occurred to Steve, he wouldn’t be able to bear it, either.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Natasha Romanoff’s life had not turned out exactly as she had planned. In fact, the one constant that she could depend on was _change_. She was always getting the rug pulled out from underneath her just when she got comfortable, and it was never a pleasant feeling. Her partner, Clint, sat next to her in their meeting. They weren’t being assigned a mission today, thankfully. Coulson was giving them the run down on some teenagers with powers they were supposed to be training in order that said teenagers did not injure themselves or others while attempting to train by themselves. Natasha wasn’t listening. She wondered when she would have to tell Fury. She wondered when she would have to tell _Clint_. Most of all, she wondered just what exactly she was going to do about all of this.

            But in the mean time, Natasha kept silent. Life had thrown her another curveball, but she’d always been an excellent batter.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “I went to Midtown Science,” Peter said in answer to MJ’s question. They sat at a table in the coffee shop, Peter sipping black coffee and MJ drinking her sugary frappuccino. “I graduated from Hawthorn Academy though—I spent about three quarters of my senior year there.” MJ raised an eyebrow.

            “Three quarters? Did you get kicked out of Midtown?” she asked. Peter laughed.

            “Do I look like the kind of guy who gets kicked out of school?” he asked. “No. My identity got compromised—I mean, someone figured out that I was Tony Stark’s kid, and that left me open to kidnappings.” MJ’s eyes widened in surprise.

            “Do you think somebody would actually kidnap you?” she asked.

            “Unfortunately, it’s happened—twice,” Peter said. MJ looked stunned.

            “Wow. That’s—wow,” she said. Peter shrugged. He didn’t think it was a big deal. He’d seen the girlfriends of various heroes affiliated with the Avengers kidnapped more times than him. “So, Midtown Science, huh? That’s over by Central Park, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah, but it’s a charter school. I’m from Brooklyn. My Pops—well, I’m pretty sure you can only drag him out of Brooklyn kicking and screaming and trying to claw his way back,” Peter said wryly, picturing that image in his head, his Pops’ nails scraping on the pavement as he and his Dad dragged Pops by the feet over the threshold into Queens.

            “Your Pops—that’s Captain America, right? I keep forgetting that. That was…quite the announcement a few months back,” MJ said. Peter put himself a little on guard.

            “Yeah, Pops doesn’t go halfway on anything,” he said. MJ must have noticed the edge to his voice, because she smiled.

            “Well, I think it’s great. Made quite a splash in the LGBT community. My dads were pretty surprised about it. Dad more so than Papa, I think. He just kept saying ‘I don’t believe it’ over and over again. He was so pleased that someone in such a respected position had the courage to come out like that, especially after so long,” MJ said enthusiastically.

            “So, you have two dads too?” Peter asked, genuinely surprised.

            “Well it’s not _that_ unusual nowadays,” MJ said. She sipped on her frappuccino as Peter tried to process this information.

            “I’ve never met anyone else with two dads,” he said.

            “Well, it’s not like we have a support group or anything,” MJ said, rolling her eyes. “Not like we _need_ one either.”

            “I know that,” Peter said. “It’s still kind of nice, though. My life’s always been pretty secretive. I mean, no one could know who my parents were, so pretty much no one knew I had two dads, either. It’s such a relief to be able to live openly.” MJ looked at him seriously, studying his face.

            “That must have been rough,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that before. I’ve always been able to be open about it. My dads were never closeted—at least, not while I was alive or anything. Everybody at school knew. Pretty much nobody cared. As it should be. So, hey, where in Brooklyn _were_ you, anyway?”

            “Do you know Taggers Street?” Peter asked.

            “In Williamsburg?” MJ asked. Peter grinned.

            “Yeah, that’s it. Where’d you grow up?”

            “Brooklyn Heights. Went to Packer Collegiate. I live on Pineapple Street,” MJ said.

            “By the Brooklyn War Memorial?” Peter asked. MJ nodded.

            “I usually describe it as right next to Brooklyn Bridge, but, yeah, actually,” she said, looking contemplative. “Have you been there before?”

            “Every Memorial day,” Peter said. MJ blinked.

            “Oh. Right. Captain America does a speech there every year, doesn’t he? Reads out all the names? I went when I was little; Dad took me. He put me up on his shoulders so I could see above the crowd. We put flowers down every year the day before, but I usually avoid Memorial day itself. Dad and Papa usually go, but I think it’s too crowded with the Captain there, and, I mean, 7,000 names take a long time to read out,” MJ said with a little, apologetic shrug.

            “Yeah, I know they do,” Peter said. He could remember hating having to attend the long ceremony as a kid, especially on hot days. His dad was always there, sure, and his pops was on stage, but he was in the care of a SHIELD agent for those three or four hours since no one wanted attention drawn to a little kid hanging all over Tony Stark, who, as far as the public was concerned, had no children and probably hated children. This past year was the first that he’d been allowed to sit next to his dad. It was nice. “But Pops insists on reading them all himself. He says he wants to pay proper respects, even to the men he didn’t know. He doesn’t just want to cut off after five hundred names, or whatever, and let someone else finish it. He doesn’t just go there on Memorial day, either. They don’t let the public inside the memorial, but, well, they know Pops there. The staff always let him in. His friends are on that wall.” MJ nodded.

            “That must be tough for him. I can’t imagine,” she said. The two of them silently drank for a minute. Peter figured he should know better by now than to bring up anything dealing with Pops’ past. It was never a pleasant subject. Even the fun stories were tinged with sadness, colored with death. It was no wonder Pops didn’t ever really bring it up. “So. Do you still live at Taggers Street?”

            “I’ve moved out for the school year,” Peter said. “But yeah.”

            “Well, if you’re ever in Brooklyn Heights, look me up,” MJ said. Her frappuccino was finished. “After all, sounds to me like you could use all the help you can get with the showcase.” She stood up, and Peter followed the action.

            “Ugh, I’ll definitely take you up on that offer. I’m all out of creative ideas. I think university has destroyed the creative side of my brain entirely. All I can think about are equations now,” Peter said, shaking his head. “It was nice to meet you MJ.”

            “Oh, I know it was,” MJ replied with a saucy wink. “Later!” MJ sashayed away from the table, and Peter looked at his watch. Five o’clock—well, he had plenty of time to get to the apartment and get something started for dinner with Gwen. And here he’d thought all Tuesdays were awful. What had he been thinking?

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Steve set down the mug of coffee in front of his husband, who had finally wandered downstairs in casual clothes and taken a seat at the kitchen table. He looked disgruntled. He looked troubled. Steve didn’t know how to help. He hated that he didn’t know how to help. What had happened that morning, well, it wasn’t a big deal to Steve, but he could tell that it was eating at Tony. Out of ideas of how to help, Steve figured he might as well try a different tactic— _diversion_.

“Did you see the news this morning?” Steve asked. He put the paper down in front of Tony as well. Steve leaned against the counter, his own coffee mug in hand. “Oscorp is officially handing over the reins to a kid not old enough to drink yet next week.” Tony frowned as he read the paper.

“Can’t say I’m not partially thrilled. It’s corporate suicide. The Board has to _know_ that. Have they even _met_ the kid?” Tony asked. He shook his head. “I took over young. It can be done. But Harry Osborn is no Tony Stark.” Steve chuckled. Tony shot him a glare. “ _What_?”

“Your statement is entirely true, but it still sounds ridiculously arrogant,” Steve said. Tony rolled his eyes.

“It’s not _arrogance_ if it’s _fact_. I graduated MIT at fifteen, and I was working on my third doctorate when I took over Stark Industries. Little Osborn barely made it out of Hawthorn. Peter can run _circles_ around that kid, and I still wouldn’t want Peter taking over SI if I died tomorrow,” Tony said. He took a long drink of coffee.

“Well it helps that Pepper can run the company by herself when she has to,” Steve pointed out. “You have trusted board members and an ‘assistant’ that keeps them all in line. Norman Osborn probably didn’t have any of that. Besides, I’ll bet he figured he’d live forever when he appointed Harry successor.” Tony snorted.

“Probably,” he agreed. Then he grimaced. “I wish Peter didn’t insist on living with that spoiled brat.”

“Would you rather he stayed here?” Steve asked, amused. Spoiled brat—Oh, Tony, ever the hypocrite.

“He could have his _own_ apartment,” Tony whined. Steve rolled his eyes. The timer for the bacon went off and Steve pulled it out of the oven.

“So you would rather our nineteen-year-old son with a serious girlfriend had his own apartment?” Steve asked.

“Don’t be such a prude, Steve,” Tony replied, grabbing a piece of bacon before dropping it back on the tray. “Ow! Hot!” He sucked on his two injured fingers, looking personally offended at the bacon.

“I’m not being a _prude_ I’m being _practical_. I would rather not be a grandfather just yet, thanks very much,” Steve said. He took a seat at the table and put a pancake on his plate.

“Oh, give me a break. Peter’s smart, Gwen’s smart, they’re not going to do anything stupid. They’re both consenting adults now. What they do—or don’t do—is their own business,” Tony said. “I’d much rather him be exposed to sweet, smart, sassy Gwen’s influence than _Harry Osborn’s_.” Tony shuddered. Steve rolled his eyes.

“If Peter’s so smart, what does Harry Osborn’s influence matter?” he asked.

“It matters because Harry’s opinion matters to Peter,” Tony said very seriously. “And that’s more dangerous than anything. I’d rather he got Gwen pregnant than got himself hooked on some drug or started binge drinking. Hell, I hope he marries that girl when they get out of school and starts a family anyway—what do I care if it happens a little earlier?”

“You care because Peter can’t support _himself_ right now, let alone a family,” Steve said firmly.

“Like we’d throw them out in the cold,” Tony said, waving a hand. “Like I’d cut off his trust fund and disinherit him for getting his girlfriend pregnant. Please. It’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. You _know_ that.”

“Peter has to make his own way in this world,” Steve said. “He’s done a fantastic job so far. Now would not be a good time for him to get overly dependent on us.”

“I didn’t say it would,” Tony said. He cautiously touched another piece of bacon before picking it up and taking a bite. “I’m just saying, I’ll take ten accidental grandkids with Gwen over one drug addiction from Harry.”

“We don’t know Harry is on drugs,” Steve pointed out. Tony gave him a look.

“Maybe _you_ don’t know Harry’s on drugs, but I can spot a junky from a mile away,” Tony said. “I’m telling you, that kid’s on something. Probably several somethings.”

“Oh, Tony,” Steve said with a sigh. “Peter’s smarter than that.”

“I hope so,” Tony replied. “I really do.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

           

“The girl’s not bad,” Clint commented to Natasha as they walked down the hall in the Triskelion towards the locker rooms.

            “She needs work. They _all_ need work. They’re headstrong, they’re foolhardy, and they’re probably going to get themselves killed. And something smells off to me about that Bradley kid,” Natasha said irritably. “Did Fury even ask their parents before they started this? Aren’t they minors?”

            “Barely legal from what Coulson told me, but legal’s all he needs,” Clint replied. He watched Natasha carefully. “They’re just kids, Nat. With the proper training, I think they have potential, especially as a unit.”

            “We don’t have time to be Avengers and train a team of—what, the next avengers?” Natasha asked. She grew more agitated with every step she took. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have time for any of this. She just wanted to go back home, take a hot shower, and curl up on the couch with Ana and Will and watch that Pixar film about the old man and the little boy and the dog.

            “How about _young_ avengers. Next makes it sounds like they’ll be taking over our positions over our cold corpses,” Clint said, one end of his mouth curling up in a smile. Natasha couldn’t smile back. What was she going to tell him? _When_ was she going to tell him? She could, of course, keep this a secret for as long as she pleased. Well, to an extent. But she wasn’t sure that she wanted to. It was a great irony—they were two super spies, and yet, they’d poured all their secrets into each other.

            Well. Most of them.

            How long did she want to keep this from him? Did she even want to keep this from him at all?

            “Tasha,” Clint said. He looked at her with concern and curiosity. She’d been quiet a moment too long.

            “We don’t have time to train them. And none of them have practical experience. They need someone directing the group who has field experience,” Natasha said in a clipped tone. They were outside the locker rooms now. Clint looked thoughtful.

            “You’re right. You know, I might have a solution that will work out for everyone,” he said. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

            “Oh?” she asked. “And what is this magic solution?” Clint smiled.

            “A slightly different spider, Widow,” he said, and then he slipped into the men’s locker room. Natasha tilted her head. Hm. It could work.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

           

            “You’re sure you don’t want to stick around?” Peter asked Harry. Harry was putting on his scarf. “There’s plenty of pasta.” Harry raised an eyebrow.

            “Pete, if you want me around for your date, I think you’re doing this whole dating thing wrong,” he said, but then he grinned. “Or very _right—_ man, Pete, I didn’t think Gwen would be _into_ that you kinky bas—ow.” Harry rubbed the spot on his arm that Peter had punched, and he chuckled.

            “Get out,” Peter said rolling his eyes. “And see if I save you any leftovers.”

            “Whatever, whatever,” Harry said as he walked out towards the door. Harry opened it, only to reveal Gwen, her hand in a fist, poised for knocking.

            “Oh! Hi, Harry,” she said, putting her hand down and slipping in just as Harry slipped out.

            “Bye,” Harry said abruptly with a short wave. He took off down the hall as Gwen shut the door. She turned and gave Peter an odd look.

            “He still doesn’t like me,” she said.

            “I know,” Peter said. They both knew the topic of conversation had much less to do with Harry not liking Gwen and much _more_ to do with who Harry _did_ like, but Peter wasn’t about to bring that up in conversation. He still didn’t like to think about it. Harry was his best friend—he didn’t want to hurt him, but he didn’t know how to handle the situation, either. Harry didn’t appear to remember that extremely uncomfortable night, and Peter was happy to forget it, too. He took Gwen’s hand in his. “Come on, I made the famous Stark family meatballs.” He led her to the table over by the window. They had a pretty decent view for students; Harry had sprung for some nice housing, and Peter’s parents were happy to pay for half the rent, especially considering Peter was attending ESU tuition-free. As the sun set and the sky turned a soft pink and purple, Gwen and Peter had dinner. Gwen told Peter about some asshole TA who’d hit on her, and Peter told Gwen about meeting MJ, the spunky journalism student who had also stopped Spider-Man during a robbery.

            “Well that takes guts,” Gwen said, amused.

            “Yeah. Never did find out what she wanted, though,” Peter said. He couldn’t ask MJ as Peter, obviously. Gwen shrugged.

            “Probably just wanted a picture,” Gwen said. “A good picture of Spider-Man could make some decent money, sold to the papers.”

            “Ugh, the papers,” Peter said, putting his fork down. “Don’t even get me thinking about the papers. The Bugle’s been—”

            Peter never quite knew how to describe his spidey sense. It didn’t tell him from _where_ danger was coming. It didn’t tell him in what form, or how. He rarely knew where to move to, only that nine times out of ten, it was a very good idea to move as fast as possible. So when that feeling lit up his every nerve, Peter didn’t even think. He leapt over the table, tackling MJ and her chair to the ground as less than half a second later something whistled through the air.

            “Move away from the window!” Peter yelled as they ran, crouched over, into the kitchen. Once Gwen was safely behind some counters, Peter got up just a tad. “Stay there, ok?” Peter’s spidey sense wasn’t going off, so he stood. There was a small hole in the window, and a bullet stuck in the wall on the opposite side. It would have gone clean through Peter’s head. He ripped off his shirt and jeans.

            “Where are you going?” Gwen asked, her voice a bit shrill.

            “I’m going to go see who’s _shooting_ at us,” Peter said, pulling on his mask. “Stay put, ok?” he ran to the window, opened it up and jumped out. He threw a strand of web to a nearby building and swung, looking around carefully. He wasn’t much of a sharpshooter, but there were only so many places a sniper could have shot from. He took a quick look at the tops of some of the nearby buildings, but there was no one. There was no equipment left, no bullet casings, nothing to indicate anyone had been around. Frustrated, Peter swung back into the apartment and  went back into the kitchen. Gwen had stood up but she was still there.

            “No luck?” she asked.

            “None,” he said. “Are you ok? I should have asked that before I left, I’m sorry.” She reached out and removed his mask, then hugged him fiercely. Peter put his arms around her. He was surprised to find his own heart racing, surprised to find his hands shaking slightly.

            Someone knew where he lived. Someone might know who he _was_. Someone was trying to kill him, and that someone wasn’t going to do it on an open battlefield.

            Fucking _Tuesdays_. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

            “So what do you think, Clint?” Steve asked. Clint looked from the bullet hole’s entry in the window out beyond towards the city skyline. Steve felt sick, and he knew that Tony, who stood beside him, felt the same. Someone had attacked their son. It wasn’t a new feeling, but the increasing frequency of attacks was alarming. Steve had enough trouble dealing with Peter being attacked on the battlefield; he wasn’t sure he could handle Peter being attacked in his daily life, too.

            “Definitely an expert sniper,” Clint said, looking troubled. “You’re sure he wasn’t on any of the buildings you checked, Pete?” Peter nodded. He looked a bit shaken as well. When Tony and Steve had arrived, they’d had Happy escort Gwen home. Peter had already called Harry to tell him to find somewhere else to stay for the night.

            “Whoever it was had gone by the time I got out there,” Peter said.

            “Or he wasn’t using any of the rooftops that you checked,” Clint said. He pointed up out the window. “See that?” The whole family leaned in closer, looking up to where Clint was pointing. Steve didn’t see anything but blue sky and big buildings.

            “What are you showing us, Hawkeye?” he asked.

            “See that crane?” he asked. Steve squinted. Far, far in the distance was a crane, poised on a rooftop, working on a neighboring building. It was one of the highest points.

            “That’s too far,” Tony disagreed. “A regular sniper wouldn’t be able to make that shot.”

            “No, but I would. And a handful of other people. You’d have to use thermal imaging, but that’s your best vantage point for this shot,” Clint said. His mouth curled down in a frown.  “Makes it tougher on us, though.”

            “Why? Can’t we narrow down this handful of people?” Steve asked.

            “The legitimate ones, sure. The ones who are military trained. The ones I’ve met. But there are probably a couple that I haven’t, and my guess is on one of them,” Clint said. “But if he—or she—used that spot, and my best guess is he did, then he was using thermal imaging. If he was using thermal imaging, then we have no idea who his target was. Harry, or Peter.”

            “You think he meant to hit Osborn and got them mixed up?” Steve asked. Clint looked contemplative.

            “Depends. If he’s a hired gun and nothing else, maybe. If he’s got other training…then no,” Clint said. He walked over to the hole in the wall where the bullet had lodged. He whipped out a pocket knife and carefully teased the bullet out. He examined it closely. He didn’t speak for a while.

            “Got anything for us?” Steve asked.

            “I’m not sure,” Clint said. He looked disturbed. He handed the bullet to Steve, who looked it over.

            “It’s a 7 mil,” Steve said. “So?”

            “Look at the back,” Clint replied. Steve flipped it over in his hand. There was a single star surrounded by a circle carved into it.

            “What is that?” Steve asked, handing it back.

            “I have no idea,” Clint replied. “Calling card, maybe? I’ll talk it over with Natasha, see if she has any ideas.”

            “If it’s a calling card, this guy doesn’t want to be subtle,” Tony said. “He wants us pissed off, looking for him.”

            “Do you think he missed on purpose?”

            “He didn’t miss,” Peter disagreed. “If I didn’t have my spidey sense, that would have gone clean through my head.”

            “Spidey sense?” Tony asked, amused.

            “ _Later_.”

            “We’ll have plenty of time for later,” Steve said, “since you’re coming back home with your dad and me.” Peter sighed and rolled his eyes but said only in response,

            “Just let me pack, first.” He headed off towards his bedroom. Steve watched him go, feeling just slightly anxious about it. He didn’t particularly want his son out of his sight for a while yet.

            “I think he’s after one of you,” Clint said as soon as Peter was gone.

            “How do you figure?” Steve asked.

            “He didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man,” Clint said. He ticked points off on his fingers. “If he did, he would have known he has an unnatural reaction time. Anybody who sees that kid in action does. If he was after Harry, there wouldn’t be a calling card on the back of this bullet. Who does Harry have to avenge his death? No one. Somebody wanted to make this a very personal fight by taking out your kid. Question is, _which_ of you pissed somebody off, and _who_ is pissed?”

            “Sounds like the key’s in the calling card,” Tony pointed out. “If he left that on purpose, it has to have a trail to it that we can sniff out.”

            “He meant for us to find this card covered in our son’s blood,” Steve said, rage slowly building up inside of him. “We’re going to sniff him out, and we’re going to do it fast. Clint, run that through the SHIELD database—and run it past Natasha, and Thor. Jane too, for good measure. See if anyone can tell us anything about it.” Peter emerged from his room, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He had a smile on, but Steve could see the strain on his little boy, could see that the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, could see the tension with which he gripped the strap of his duffel. Peter had been kidnapped twice, shot in the gut and almost fatally wounded, hunted down by the Green Goblin, and nearly disemboweled by the a giant lizard-person, but Steve could tell that of all those things, this was draining him the most. You could fight a crazy green monster on a glider; bullets that came from nowhere were a little more difficult to combat. Steve put a hand on Peter’s shoulder reassuringly, squeezing gently.

            “Roger that, Rogers,” Clint said in reply. “Are we good to go?”

            “For now. Pete, you ready?” Steve asked. Peter nodded, and they headed out of the apartment, back to Brooklyn. Steve hoped that they would be safe there, but he wasn’t under any real illusion that they would be. He felt Tony take his hand, and he glanced back at his husband. He looked tired. They were all tired. After twenty-two years of being an Avenger, the wear was beginning to show—when the job stayed away from home (as much as it ever stayed away from home), it was manageable. But it wasn’t staying away from home very often anymore. One glance at Clint’s face showed his own concern, and Steve gripped Tony’s hand a bit tighter at the thought of something happening to Ana or Will. They needed to take care of this—and _fast._

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Clint opened up the door to his home, still distracted and troubled by the mark in the bullet. He could swear he’d seen the symbol somewhere before. It _could_ just be a poor rendition of the center of the Captain’s shield, but somehow Clint doubted it. The intended victim marked out the emotional targets well enough—why specify it on the bullet?

            “Daddy!” Ana shrieked as he walked in the door, running towards him at top speed. Will was chasing her, something green and slimy in his hands. A frog, Clint realized. He didn’t even want to know where his son had managed to find a frog in the middle of New York City. Ana grabbed him around the middle as Will slowed, obviously contemplating the consequences of getting near his father with the creature.

            “Will, you put that frog back outside,” Clint said, pointing. “Don’t chase your sister with it.”

            “But it’s so cool and slimy!” Will said. “I just wanted her to _touch_ it. Come on, Ana, just touch it, don’t be such a _baby_.”

            “Will, _now_ —and where is your mother?”

            “She fell asleep on the couch,” Ana informed him. Warning bells went off in Clint’s head. Natasha did not nap. Natasha got precisely eight hours of sleep every night, no more, and no less if she could help it. She said that anything more threw her off and made her groggy; she could run on less sleep when necessary, but it had similar effects. She hated naps, and Clint knew that she would not sleep until the kids were put away in bed. It was nine o’clock—they should have been getting ready for bed an hour ago. Clint gently extricated his daughter from himself.

            “Will, put that outside and then I want both of you upstairs, brushing your teeth and getting your pajamas on,” Clint said. “I’ll be up in a minute.” Will made a face, but he headed towards the kitchen to throw the frog out the back door. At least, that’s what Clint _hoped_ he was going to the kitchen for.

            “Will you read a bed time story tonight, Daddy?” Ana asked, looking up at him with wide brown eyes. He felt a pang; neither he nor Natasha had been home half as often as they would have liked in the past few months. With Gwen busy with university, they were running through babysitters like the Triskelion medical bay ran through blood. Clint bent down and kissed his daughter on the top of her head.

            “Absolutely, sweet heart. You two just pick out a book,” he said. “Now go on, I’ll be up soon.” With a grin, Ana ran up the stairs, and a half second later Will, now frog-less, ran past, racing his sister up to the second story. That taken care of, Clint headed inside to the family room. It was messy, as per usual. _Angelina Ballerina_ books were strewn across one section of the floor. Will didn’t like to admit it, but he read them as often as Ana did. Ana was the only one enrolled in ballet, but Clint would have to ask Natasha if it might not be a good idea to sign Will up, too. Other than the books, DVD cases sat in front of the television, their homework assignments were spread across the coffee table, and Natasha’s shoes were neatly placed by the edge of the couch, on which she slept.

            Natasha did everything gracefully, and that included sleeping. She laid on her side, her hands tucked beneath the pillow on which her head rested. She had changed from her black SHIELD uniform into much more comfortable and functional yoga pants and a simple t-shirt—one of his, in fact. Likely all of Natasha’s were dirty. There were always more important things to do than laundry. He knelt down on the floor by the couch, crossing his arms and resting them on the sofa cushion by Natasha’s head. He put his own head down.

            “Tasha,” he said softly. Tasha’s eyes fluttered open. She was a light sleeper, out of necessity. She blinked.

            “What time is it?” she asked. Her voice was still a bit rough from the sleep.

            “It’s nine o’clock,” Clint replied. “The kids are getting ready for bed upstairs. I think they are, anyway.”

            “It’s _nine_?” Natasha asked. She sat up, stretching her arms out as she went. Clint got up off the floor to sit beside her.

            “Yeah, it’s nine,” Clint said, searching Natasha’s face. She looked…drained. Natasha was usually very good at hiding her emotions or even physical fatigue, but this he could see plainly on her face. “Natasha, what is it? You’ve been off all day. You’ve been off for _weeks_.” He took her hand in his. “Tash.” Natasha just sighed and her hand slipped away. More and more warning bells were sounding in Clint’s head, but he couldn’t figure out _why_. Something was deeply wrong, but he had no clue as to what.

            “I’m not sure this is a good time,” Natasha said.

            “Well, good time or bad you can’t say that and nothing else,” Clint said, feeling dread creeping into his mind. He did his best to push it out until he could clearly evaluate the situation. Natasha sighed. She turned and looked him dead in the eyes.

            “I’m pregnant,” she said.

            Clint’s brain froze for a moment. He had no thoughts in his brain whatsoever. As his brain began to process what she had said, Clint hit a roadblock. What she said did not compute.

            “Are—are you _sure_? I mean—you have an IUD—surely this just has to be a mistake…?” Clint said, but Natasha shook her head.

            “I went in to see the doctor about it specially. There’s no mistake. It’s extremely rare, but it happens,” she said.

            “So…you’re pregnant,” Clint stated.

            “Yes,” Natasha confirmed. Clint’s mind was just blank. Forming any thought at all was an effort. If he was honest, he wanted to do what his instincts told him—he wanted to smile so wide his cheeks would hurt the next day, wanted to pick up Natasha and twirl her in the air and tell the world that they were _having a baby_. It should be the best news in the world. But Clint wasn’t even sure if they _were_ having a baby.

            “So have—what do you—what are _we_ —what are your… _thoughts_ on this?” Clint asked finally. He reached out, brushing a section of her hair back from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Natasha just shook her head. Her gaze was far away.

            “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t ever want to get pregnant again. I don’t want more children—Ana and Will are plenty enough for me.” Clint felt his heart sink a little, but he cursed himself for the feeling. He already knew Natasha’s feelings before he asked.

            “So you don’t want to _stay_ pregnant,” Clint said slowly. Natasha flicked her eyes back to his.

            “I don’t know yet,” she said. “I want us to make this decision together.”

            “You already know what I’m going to say, Tasha. At least I hope you do,” Clint said gently. Natasha just nodded.

            “I do, but I’d like to hear you confirm it,” she said. Clint sighed.

            “It’s unexpected, but this—Natasha this could be _wonderful_. Another baby. Another baby! I—honestly, I don’t see the bad part of this. We love Ana and Will. We can love another just as much. I know it will put you out of commission for a while, and I know that you hate that. I know that it will do all sorts of unpleasant things to your body, and I get that. I will understand and support whatever you decide, Tasha. But I’d like it if you decided to keep it,” Clint said. He took her hand in his. Natasha just looked away, and Clint felt his heart sink again.

            “I have a lot to consider before I make any decision,” she said at last. Clint thought that would be the end of the conversation, but then she turned and looked him in the eye. “Please don’t think I’m not going to take your opinion into consideration, Clint. I know you want me to carry to term. I know this is important to you. I want to make you happy, I do, I just—” Clint squeezed her hand reassuringly.

            “I know, Natasha,” he said. “I know.” He moved his thumb in soothing circles across the back of her hand. “We’ll get through this.”

            “Will we?” she asked, very sincerely. Clint found his answer catching in his throat, but to his relief—and probably Natasha’s too—his phone went off. He grabbed it out of his back pocket. There was a text from Steve: _Any news?_ Right. Bullet. A mysterious symbol. An attack on Peter.

            “Peter was attacked earlier tonight,” Clint said, abruptly switching subjects. Natasha nodded.

            “Coulson told me. He said you were going to the scene. What was it about?” Natasha asked. Clint shrugged.

            “That’s the thing. No idea. We do know, though, that it wasn’t aimed at Peter so much as both or one of his parents. We also know that without Peter’s spider abilities, he’d have a bullet clean through his brain right now,” Clint said gravely, and Natasha straightened subtly in attention.

            “Good shot?”

            “Almost better than me,” Clint admitted. He reached into his pocket, feeling the rough metallic surface of the seven millimeter, with the strange star etched into it. He pulled it out and held it up for Natasha to see. “I think he wanted Stark and Rogers to go after him. Maybe the whole team, hell, I don’t know. He didn’t leave any trace behind. Except this design etched into the back,; I think it’s a calling card, but I don’t recognize it.” Clint put the collapsed bullet in Natasha’s hand. “Ever seen that before?”

“Боже мой,” Natasha said as she stared at the bullet in her palm.

“Tasha?” Clint asked. Natasha smacked the bullet back into his own hand and stood up quickly, heading towards the stairs. She glanced back at him, and Clint was shocked to see something in her eyes he’d seen perhaps only once or twice before—fear.

“Sometimes I see you pray,” Natasha said, as matter-of-fact as usual, but with a wildness in her eyes. “When we’re in a really tight spot, when you think I’m not looking. I don’t know why you try to hide it from me. Maybe because you’re not ready to admit the act to yourself. But now, Clint, whether I’m looking or not—you should pray. Pray, Clint, that I haven’t. Pray.”

Natasha hurried up the stairs, leaving Clint to stare in dread at the calling card on his palm, wondering how it could possibly be a forbearance of doom.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            Peter had been kidnapped for the first time when he was six. It was ‘take your child to work’ day, and even though most SHIELD officials weren’t allowed to bring their children to work since high security clearance was needed in most areas, Peter was an exception since the most high ranking officials happened to be his parents, honorary aunts and uncles, or Nick Fury who knew them all well enough to know that they’d flagrantly violate the rules with or without his approval, anyway. Touring the helicarrier had been one of the high points of Peter’s life at six. The subsequent kidnapping when HYDRA attacked the base unexpectedly was the lowest. After several aborted escape attempts, Peter had faced unpleasant consequences at the hands of his captors, which involved a broken leg to discourage further attempts at escape and encourage SHIELD to pay their ransom, since they’d broken it on camera.

            Right or wrong, none of his captors had lived to see the following day. Peter had been swept off to a hospital, and he’d promptly encountered his first therapist. Peter had since then had many therapists over the years. Whether he personally felt like he needed them or not, his parents insisted. Most of them were pediatric psychiatrists, but as he had gotten older the most recent had been psychiatrists with SHIELD.  After Peter’s _second_ kidnapping (along with all of the other drama that happened around the same time), Peter had been prescribed anti-anxiety medication after a plague of nightmares and anxiety attacks. Since his parents had gotten back together and the Goblin had been killed, Peter hadn’t needed the medication. He found that he could sleep a little easier at night, despite whatever weird or horrible things he faced with the Avengers on a monthly or weekly or daily basis.

            Yet now, as Peter lay awake in bed, unwilling or unable to sleep, he found himself getting up and heading for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He dragged his tired feet through the bedroom and across the hall until he felt the cold white tile of the bathroom. His heart was racing and his whole body was drenched in a cold sweat. Peter flipped on the lights, wincing at the sudden brightness, and opened up the medicine cabinet. He took out his little orange prescription bottle, grabbed a pill, and swallowed it dry. He replaced the bottle and shut the medicine cabinet. His own reflection stared back at him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His skin was paler than usual with an almost waxy appearance. He braced himself with the edges of the sink as he waited for his heart rate to come down, breathing deeply as he did. There was nothing else he could do, except to try _not_ to think about the fact that a crazy sniper had very nearly blown his brains out earlier that evening and was _probably_ still looking for him and—oh, there it went again. Peter gasped sharply and sunk to his knees, hands still clutching the edge of the sink in desperation as his heart raced and panic flooded his brain in unceasing wave after wave.

            Peter was so absorbed in trying to reverse the panic that he didn’t even hear the gentle padding of feet on carpet, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when a warm, gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He let out a strangled gasp as his hands slipped from the sink and he flipped over from his knees to sit down. Peter’s Dad stood above him, slightly hunched over, his hand still outstretched.

            “Hey Pete,” he said quietly. “I went to your room to check on you, but you weren’t there. Take a few deep breaths Pete—that’s it.” Peter concentrated on his breathing—in, out, in, out—as his brain went haywire. His dad knelt down on the floor in front of him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

            “Genetic predisposition is a bitch, isn’t it?” Dad commented, wrenching a small smile from Peter as his heart rate began to slow. “You’ll have to watch the whole alcohol thing. _That_ predisposition might bite you in the ass one day, too.”

            “Yeah, thanks a lot, Dad,” Peter said dryly. He took a few more breaths, leaning his head back until it bumped against the bathroom wall.

            “Well hey at least you also got my genius. And my charming good looks,” Dad pointed out with a mischievous grin.  His smile faded fairly quickly though. “Did you take something for it?” Peter just nodded. “Good. It’s passing?” Another nod. “Good. Why don’t we get you back to bed? I think you could use the sleep, Pete.” Peter just nodded again and let his Dad help him stand back up. His knees felt wobbly and his legs a bit like jelly. He could feel his dad’s gaze on him, watching him carefully. He walked him back to his room. Peter just wanted to collapse onto the bed.

            “Night, Dad,” he said, but he found himself being pulled into a fierce hug, a hug so tight it could rival anything he’d ever gotten from Thor. His dad kissed his temple and then let him go.

            “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Peter,” he said, his voice thick with an unidentifiable emotion.

            Peter didn’t say what he was thinking. He didn’t say that things had _already_ happened to him. He wasn’t going to say that he’d been kidnapped when he was six, wasn’t going to say that he’d had to worry about the lives of his parents, wasn’t going to say that he’d been kidnapped _again_ last year, wasn’t going to say that if he didn’t have superpowers he’d already be dead several times over, wasn’t going to say that there was no possible way his parents could protect him. Because his parents needed to believe that they could. So Peter put on a smile and nodded.

            “I know,” he said, and slipped into bed.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Tony didn’t sleep well that night. He couldn’t get the image of his little boy, on his knees, clutching the bathroom sink with white-knuckled hands. He knew that his son had a lot of weight on his shoulders already, that he’d seen and experienced things that Tony would not have _dreamed_ of at his age. But it pained him, after all the effort he’d made to make sure that Peter had the best life possible, to see his child hurting in a way that Tony could do nothing about. As Peter had left the house that morning, he’d made sure that Peter was tailed by eagle-eyed SHIELD agents. Tony wasn’t sure how large the detail that Fury had on him was, but he was willing to bet that there were at least four agents following him from all different angles and places. Peter would figure it out, Tony knew, but it gave him some small degree of comfort to know that he wouldn’t be attacked on his way to school, or while sitting in his engineering class.

            Steve looked just as weary as Tony felt, but even in his weariness he still looked as perfect as ever. He was a permanent Adonis, forever youthful, forever able to grace the world with his beauty. Tony, however, felt his back aching and was conscious of every gray hair on his head (there were, after all, quite a lot of them). Steve was flipping pancakes on the stove—he’d made some for Peter, which Peter had gulped down as quickly as possible before flying out the door, but hadn’t had time to make any for himself or Tony. As he used the spatula to place the pancakes on two plates, Tony blurted out,  
            “What happens when I physically cannot have sex with you anymore?” Steve turned around slowly with a look so astonished that it would have been comical if Tony hadn’t been so dumbfounded himself—why had he _said that_?!

            “ _What_?”

            “That didn’t come out right. Uh, well, it did, but the fact that it _came out_ was the not right bit,” Tony scrambled for footing in the conversation, still trying to figure out when he’d lost control of his mouth.

            “Tony—what—where is this coming from? Is this about the other morning?” Steve asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “We’re getting older, Tony, it’s normal.”

            “No, no, _I’m_ getting older,” Tony said. “You’re still young, perfect you.” Steve just laughed.

            “Tony, I’m only—physically—seventeen years younger than you,” he said. “Sure, it’s a big age gap, but it’s not _insurmountable_. We’re both going to be retirees here soon. What will we do then? Take up golf? I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

            “Steve, you were physically seventeen years younger than me _twenty-three years ago_. Now you’re physically _forty_ years younger than me— _shit_ I hadn’t touched that number before, now I’m freaking _myself_ out,” Tony said shaking his head and trying to scrub his brain of the number. _Age is just a number, age is just a number_. He could chant that to himself over and over again but it wouldn’t make him feel any better about the fact that he was physically getting close to being a full half-century older than his husband.

            “Tony, don’t be ridiculous,” Steve said, a small, odd smile on his face. “I’m getting older, same as you.”

            “Uh, mentally, maybe, but physically you still look like you should be training with Chiron,” Tony said, his eyebrows dipping. Tony knew that the whole issue of aging hadn’t hit Steve yet—but this was a level of denial Tony did not know existed. Steve just looked at him like he was crazy.

            “Tony, everybody ages. It’s a fact of life. Nobody stays in the same place forever,” Steve said. “ _Valar Morghulis_.”

            “Ok, first of all, that is from _Game of Thrones_ and is not a real saying,” Tony pointed out.

            “Oh, that depends on your definition of ‘real’, I think,” Steve said sagely, but Tony barreled on:

            “And second of all, that statement is patently untrue; part of what causes our aging is an unraveling of the telomeres at the end of our DNA, and theoretically if you can stop that you can stop aging beyond a certain point—hence why Natasha, who’s on a variant of the super soldier serum, hasn’t aged a day since the early 1950s, and Logan hasn’t aged since God only knows when,” Tony pointed out. Steve seemed unfazed, like the information was just wafting above his head, never reaching him.

            “I’m not Natasha or Logan,” Steve said. “I’ve had gray hairs. I’m getting older.” Steve looked in a small mirror magnet they had on the fridge, then grabbed at two hairs near the front of his head. “See? Gray.” Tony squinted.

            “I’m pretty sure those are just blonder than usual,” Tony said dryly. “Steve, forget wrinkles and gray hairs, your _face_ hasn’t aged. If we plugged your picture into aging software and set it to 50, you’d look markedly different.” Steve scowled. He genuinely scowled. Tony was surprised by this look on his face given the situation—it was his ‘argument’ face, and as far as Tony was concerned, this conversation was decidedly not an argument.

            “I would not. This is just my face, Tony. It’s not going to change,” Steve said staunchly. Tony at first felt puzzled, but then, slowly, dread crept through him, like a spider creeping up his back. Steve wasn’t just playing around. He honestly, truly did not see it. All of the things that had recently occurred to Tony had never crossed his mind. In Steve’s head, they were growing old together, with himself just shy of two decades behind. In Steve’s mind, they were going at more or less the same pace. In Steve’s mind, death by old age was coming for him as surely as the sun was going to set. He had no idea that he was as frozen in time as he had been that day they pulled him out of the ice.

            “Steve,” Tony said in a low voice, “Steve, you _aren’t aging_. I’m getting older every day and you’re staying in the same place.” Steve just looked ticked off now.

            “I’m not having this conversation with you anymore, Tony. You’re being absurd,” Steve said flatly. “Drink your coffee, you need it.” Steve put a couple of pancakes onto the spatula and flipped them onto Tony’s plate. They were slightly burnt. Tony decided not to say anything about it. He watched Steve carefully as he flipped a few pancakes onto his own plate. Gone was his generally pleasant expression. He looked very deep in thought and in a foul mood. Tony hated that he’d put him there, but what could he do? There were certain realities that Steve was going to have to face sooner or later, and Tony thought those were going to creep up sooner rather than later. But Tony didn’t think he’d get any further with Steve on the subject that morning, so he drank his coffee and ate his slightly burnt pancakes and made light, pleasant conversation with him until he cheered up a bit. But the thoughts stayed in the back of Tony’s mind, unrelenting. He hadn’t gotten any sleep, and he wasn’t going to get any peace of mind during the afternoon, either.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            One thing that Clint both loved and hated about his job was that there was always something to distract him. It didn’t matter what problems he was having—work always moved on, never stopping for a break. He didn’t have time to worry about Natasha’s pregnancy when he also had a hitman out for Peter, and he didn’t have time to worry about that when he had an entire team of super powered young individuals who needed to be trained. To be fair, the whole assassin thing should have probably taken precedence, but Clint knew that Natasha was on the case. She’d rushed off that morning to check with some of her less reputable sources about the bullet. Clint didn’t have time to worry about her—she was a capable agent, and he’d have to trust that she could take care of herself.

            As to the adolescents, Kate Bishop was headstrong and self-assured. She had an incredible eye and Clint respected her talent and dedication. Out of them all, Clint thought that Kate had the best leadership ability—but she still lacked field experience. Teddy Altman’s shape-shifting abilities were certainly handy, but the boy was quite sweet tempered and easy to influence. Billy Kaplan’s telekinetic abilities were handy, but he needed to work with them more, and he needed more confidence in his skill as well. Cassie Lang needed a confidence booster too, and certainly training in the field. Eli Bradley was a bit headstrong and overeager, but Clint figured he would again be an asset—with training. Training a new group was something that Clint and the other Avengers didn’t have time for. However, Clint was more than happy to thrust the duty onto Peter in the guise of new responsibility and adulthood while Clint got on with worrying about more important things. Besides that, it would keep Peter in the Triskelion more often, which should hopefully keep him away from crazy snipers. Really, it worked out for everyone. Except, perhaps, for Peter, who regarded him with a look that went beyond disdain at the mere suggestion of training another group of superheroes.

            “If I take on training another group, I’m going to have to cut back on my patrols,” Peter said. He didn’t look happy about this prospect, which Clint personally didn’t understand. Patrols were boring. Patrols meant a lot of wandering around, waiting for something awful to happen, or listening in on the police radio. Patrols were for the _police_ , not Avengers.

            “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? Works out well,” Clint said, ignoring Peter’s expression and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Look Pete, with great power comes great responsibility or something like that—and it’s your responsibility to help train these guys so that they can go forth into the world and help other people. Paying it forward and all that.” Both of Peter’s eyebrows were raised and his arms were crossed.

            “You mean, with great power comes great drudgery? Because this sounds like grunt work to me,” Peter said.

            “It’s _important_ , Peter.”

            “Nobody trained _me_.”

            “Except your parents, who have been subconsciously grooming you for this business for years,” Clint pointed out. “Look Peter, I’m giving you your own _team_. A position of leadership. Because one day sooner than later the Avengers are going to be breaking hips on the battlefield and someone is going to need to take over for us. I know that you’re part of that. I think these kids are, too. They’re the _Young_ Avengers. Like you. But they need a leader. They need someone with experience, but someone on their own level—not adult supervision. I need you on this, Peter.” Clint felt slightly guilty as a heavy look passed briefly over the young man’s face. Peter nodded.

            “Fine,” he said. The guilt was gone, surpassed by relief. He clapped Peter on the back.

            “Great! Your new team is just this way…”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Peter had never felt more contempt focused all on him at once before in his life. Clint stood next to him, chatting at the five other young superheroes who were to make up his team, explaining how Peter was to be their _guide_ , their _team leader_. They sat in chairs in a conference room while Clint and Peter stood near the door. The kid with the coal black hair and red headband—Peter vaguely recalled that Clint had introduced him as Billy—had one eyebrow raised, as if to say, ‘ _really, dude? YOU teaching US?’_  Peter felt suddenly like he knew how a substitute teacher felt—all their faces seemed to say, ‘ _who are_ you _and why are you teaching_ our _class?’_ It was a highly uncomfortable feeling. Even weirder was the fact that the most focused glare came from one Kate Bishop, a classmate of his at Hawthorn.

            Kate had never been particularly friendly towards Peter, but she hadn’t ever been particularly _un_ friendly, either. She’d been to a couple of Harry’s parties and they’d had a few conversations. They sat at the same lunch table. He’d been happy to see a friendly face—until that friendly face scowled.

            “—so we hope you’ll learn a lot from Peter, here,” Clint said, finishing up his little speech. “Right, well, I’ll just leave you all to it then. Good luck!” Before Peter could even say a word of protest, Clint had slipped back out the door and shut it. Peter wouldn’t have put it past him to _lock_ it so that Peter wouldn’t have any means of escape.  He looked to his new teammates.

            “Uh,” Peter said articulately, “hi.”

            There was an awkward silence.

            Peter had not felt this small since he was in Mrs. Myer’s third grade class and he’d had to give a speech in front of the whole class on the Superhero Registration Act. It had just been passed that week and had been assigned to him as his ‘current events’ project. But his dads had been fighting over it so heatedly and frequently that the topic was fraught with emotional baggage for Peter. Sure, Pops had eventually sided with Dad and the act had passed, but it wasn’t a 100% backing or endorsement. There was a lot of tension in the house and Peter didn’t want to think about it at school. But there he was, eight years old, facing thirty bored kids his age and an expectant teacher, about to speak about a topic that tore him in two. He couldn’t do it. He got a quarter of the way through the report before he broke down in tears. A lot of the kids had laughed at him. Even though he hadn’t had a fear of public speaking before, he had one forever after.

            So as he stood in front of these Young Avengers, he didn’t feel any sassy comments or jokes coming to mind. He just felt panic slowly rising in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run out of the room and not come back. He wanted to go find Gwen and watch a movie. Hell, he’d take watching the terror twins over this.

            “You know, I really don’t like that name,” Billy spoke up irritably. Peter thought for a moment, trying to grasp the other’s train of thought, but he couldn’t figure it out.

            “What name?” Peter asked.

            “Young Avengers. He keeps calling us that,” Billy said, nodding towards the door as if it were Hawkeye.  “We hadn’t decided on a team name.”

            “I think it’s just what he calls you…because, you know, you kind of do resemble the team,” Peter said placating, but Billy’s expression just grew more reticent.

            “Names stick. I hope this one doesn’t. We’re not copycats. We’re not _mini_ Avengers,” Billy argued.

            _Great_ , Peter thought, _we’re already off to a fantastic start_.

            “Maybe we should think about the name later,” said the big blonde in the corner diplomatically. Peter figured his name, Teddy, would be very easy to remember as he kind of just _looked_ like a teddy bear. He shot Teddy a grateful glance, but Eli cut in, blunt and obviously not in the mood for diplomacy:

            “Yeah, great idea Teddy. Why don’t we focus instead on the fact that Stark here has just been floated in over our heads and appointed our team leader? Since when did we ever _have_ a leader? I told you joining up with SHIELD was a bad idea—we should have gone underground—”

            “We’ve _talked_ about this, Eli,” Cassie spoke up, looking tired already. Cassandra Lang was yet another familiar face. Her father, Scott Lang, had taken the title of Ant Man and had the impressive ability to shrink and grow in size—an ability which he’d gotten from Henry Pym. He’d joined up with the Avengers many a time, but had died some years ago. Peter had met Cassie a few times, but they had never been close.

            “I’m just _saying_ —” Eli started again.

            “Enough,” Kate interrupted sharply. The room fell silent, and Peter suddenly realized why Kate was glaring at him in such a hostile manner. There already _was_ a team leader, whether the rest of them realized it or not, and he’d just usurped her position. “We made this decision as a team and now we’ll deal with the consequences the same way— _as a team_. Peter, go on. Introduce yourself.” Peter felt himself freezing again, but somehow he managed to get his lips moving.

            “Uh, ok,” he said. “I’m, uh, Peter, obviously. Peter Stark. Or Stark-Rogers or Rogers-Stark or something; I’m not really sure, actually, since it’s all unofficial anyway—uh so yeah, I’m Spider-Man and all that. I’ve been working in the field for about a year now. I go to ESU when I’m not doing the whole Avengers thing.”

            _Inspiring speech, Stark_ , Peter thought to himself acidly. The Young Avengers looked appropriately uninspired.

            “So did Daddy buy you superpowers, or what?” Eli asked.

            “Eli!” Cassie admonished.

Peter felt a spike of anger. He wasn’t used to dealing with ribs about his parents or upbringing, since it had mostly been a secret when he was a kid. He didn’t like dealing with it now.

            “It was a radioactive spider, actually,” Peter said coolly. “What’s your power, again?” Eli’s look turned even harder.

            “Supersoldier. My grandfather was the black Captain America. The one who _didn’t_ volunteer for any experimental procedures but got tossed into it anyway, one of only five survivors of a procedure performed forcibly on black soldiers trying to replicate project rebirth,” Eli said coldly.

            _Eli Bradley_. Peter should have realized. _Isaiah_. Peter had not, contrary to popular belief, grown up on idealistic stories about the US and the wars. With a father who well and deeply understood the corruption of the US military-industrial complex and a pops who had fought in World War II, Peter was in fact under no illusions about the government. Pops had shared with him the story of Isaiah Bradley and Camp Cathcart as soon as he was old enough to understand it. Peter had been taught faith and pride in his country and its people—but not blind faith in the government. He looked Eli right in the eye as he said,

            “I’m sorry for what they did to your family.” Eli did not look satisfied, but Peter didn’t know what else to say. How could he apologize for such atrocities? How could he convey his condolences appropriately? How could he possibly make up for the oppression and systematic murder of an entire race of people? Peter did not think the words existed. Indeed they did not.

            The tension in the room was even more awkward now. Peter didn’t really know what to do. He’d never had to be a group leader before. Even on projects in school he didn’t _lead_ —98% of the time he ended up doing the entire project by himself. He hated group projects.

            “Look, if we’re all going to get along we’re going to have to ignore some history. And we can’t go in with any preconceived notions,” Kate said with a pointed look at Eli and Billy. She looked at Peter, but she was still glaring daggers. Peter resisted the urge to flinch. “All right, Stark. Show us, in all your infinite wisdom, what to do.”

            Somehow, Peter wasn’t really feeling like he had _any_ allies in the room. He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

            “Sure. To the simulation room we go?” Peter suggested. His suggestion was met with the scraping of chair legs on the floor, one long-suffering sigh, and otherwise silence.

            Oh, it was going to be a fun day, Peter could tell.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Natasha sat with her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. There was no denying it. It seemed impossible, but there he was. She heard footsteps from behind her echo off the bare walls.

            “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Natasha asked.

            “We weren’t sure,” Fury said. “We didn’t want to…”

            “Worry me? Concern me? Or were you more afraid I’d turncoat the minute I saw him?” Natasha asked. She was met only with silence. “And the Captain?”

            “Hasn’t been told.”

            “We should keep it that way,” Natasha said, getting up from her position and finally tearing her eyes away from the blurry surveillance image on the screen. Fury looked at her impassively.

            “For now,” he said. Natasha nodded.

            “For now,” she agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve stared down at the little brochure, thrown off entirely by its presence. He’d thought about this before, of course, but it was never an idea he’d really researched. He knew there wasn’t a place for it in their tiny little family, knew that their family was already complete and solidified. He was ok with that, for the most part. But here was a little pamphlet staring up at him, about IVF and surrogates and egg donors, and it was sitting innocently on his kitchen table, like it had every right to be there. Steve had no idea how it had gotten there in the first place. Had it come in with the mail? It was possible, he supposed, but there weren’t any letters or bills sitting with it. It was all on its own, and what’s more, it was propped up against the flower vase, purposefully.

Steve’s eyebrows stitched together in confusion. Peter wouldn’t have put it there. He had no reason to think about such topics. So the only logical conclusion was that Tony had put it there, that he had posed it on the kitchen table and left it there for Steve to find—but _why_? Tony didn’t want more children. Steve _knew_ that Tony didn’t want more children and wouldn’t _ever_ want more children. So why would he put a brochure for a surrogacy company on their table? Steve decided there was only one way to find out.

“Tony!” Steve called through the house. “Tony can you come in here please?” A few moments later, Steve heard footsteps and the stairs creaked as he made his way down. Tony appeared in the kitchen, dressed in sweats and a wife beater, looking like he was ready to head out to the garage.

“Yes?” Tony asked, his voice a little _too_ oblivious. Steve pointed at the pamphlet.

“What is _that_?” he demanded. Tony blinked, looking up at Steve innocently.

“Nothing. Just something to think about,” he said. “Are you making breakfast or did you want me to?”

“I don’t ever want you to cook unless I want food poisoning,” Steve said. He picked up the brochure and waved it around. “And why would I be thinking about this, Tony? You don’t want more kids. We have a grown up son. We’re about to hit retirement stage and be empty nesters.”

“I’ve never said I didn’t want more kids,” Tony said.

“You never said you wanted any, either,” Steve pointed out.

“I would, if it was important to you,” Tony replied, looking very serious. 

“It doesn’t matter. We’re getting old anyway,” Steve said, shaking his head. He threw the brochure in the trash. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Tony.”

“Yes you do,” Tony said. He put a hand on Steve’s arm. “You know what’s gotten into me, and somewhere deep down you know that I’m right.” Steve batted Tony’s hand away, feeling a familiar surge of anger.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said. “Now I don’t want to hear any more about this, Tony. And I don’t know what you thought _that_ was supposed to help with.”

“You’ll need to move on, Steve,” Tony said. He sounded like he was pleading. Steve just felt more anger bubbling in his stomach. “You could start another family. You could get remarried. I’d want you to, Steve. I want you to be happy.”

“Stop talking like you’re dying!” Steve shouted. “You’re not dying Tony, and when you do I’ll be following shortly after. I’m not starting any more families— _you_ are my family, you and Peter, and that’s the way it’s staying.”

“Steve, I know you. I know you’re smarter than this. You _know_. Somewhere deep inside you, you know, and you’ve been denying it because you don’t want to face it. I know all about denial, I’m the _king_ of denial, and you are _in denial_ , Steve. I just want you to be _prepared_. I don’t want this to tear us apart—” Steve cut Tony off by grasping his head in his hands and kissing him forcefully. When he was finished, Tony was effectively stunned into silence. Steve rested his forehead on Tony’s

“Nothing,” he said quietly, listening to the sound of Tony’s breathing, “is tearing us apart, ever again. Do you understand me? _Nothing_.” Steve kissed him again, gently this time. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

“Steve,” Tony said quietly, imploringly. Steve felt that anger again. He knew what Tony was begging of him. He grabbed him by his arm instead and started dragging him out of the kitchen. “Steve?” Steve didn’t answer, just pulled him up the stairs. “Steve, what—?” Steve pushed him into the bedroom and shut the door behind them. It was a good thing Peter wasn’t home. He attacked his startled husband’s mouth, kissing him deeply, roughly, relentlessly. He moved them backwards until the backs of Tony’s knees hit the bed and he was forced to sit. Steve pushed on his shoulders until he was lying back. He put his hands on either side of his head, then finally took a break, parting his lips from Tony’s. Tony’s eyes were hooded, but he still looked a bit surprised.

“I love you,” Steve said, his voice a bit hoarse, choked with emotion. “I’m not sure what it will take to get that through your head, but I love you. Anywhere you go, I go. And even if your crazy ideas were true—which they _aren’t_ —we would stay side by side until the end, you understand me? I love _this_ —” Steve paused to kiss his husband deeply once more, “—but I love _you_ more. If you were injured in battle tomorrow and ended up quadriplegic, I would love you, I would stay by your side. I’m not leaving you for any reason.” He leaned down to kiss his husband’s mouth again.

“But Steve—” Tony began, but Steve just swallowed his words.

“No buts,” Steve whispered. “Not one.”

They didn’t emerge from the bedroom until some time later, the brochure forgotten in the kitchen trashcan.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Peter. _Pete_. Wake up.”

The voice sounded far away, but Peter felt himself stir. He blinked his eyes open and the bright lights of a classroom met his eyes. Staring down at him was a fiery redhead—MJ. Peter lifted his head off his desk—the teacher was still lecturing at the front of the classroom.

“I wanted to let you sleep but Professor Varishnikov was sending you death glares,” MJ told him in a whisper. “Figured he might call you out on the sleeping if you slept much longer.” Peter looked down at the severe, hooked nose photography professor who looked like a scarier version of Professor Snape. 

“Thanks,” Peter whispered back, just as the professor dismissed the class. Peter shoved his notebook—the top page blank—back into his bag.

“Have you finished your photos for the showcase yet?” MJ asked. Peter shook his head.

“I’m going to shoot them on Thursday. But I have a theme, now,” he said. 

“Oh, what is it?” MJ asked. Peter just smiled.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said.

“Ugh, no fun,” MJ complained.

“Sorry, that’s just the way it is,” Peter said, yawning. He blinked slowly. His eyelids felt heavy, and his limbs ached. Pulling his backpack onto his shoulder was a slow struggle.

“Maybe you should go get some rest,” MJ said, sounding concerned. Peter shook his head.

“No time,” he said.

“But isn’t this your last class?” MJ asked. She was right of course, this _was_ his last class. But it was hardly his last responsibility for the day—he still had practice with the (unwillingly and unwittingly named) Young Avengers, midterms to study for, and a girlfriend to see. Sleep was for the weak. 

“Yeah but I’ve got some…family stuff to take care of,” Peter said vaguely. “And then midterms to study for. And I think Gwen wanted to hang out tonight so…”

“So you’ll just be falling over all day tomorrow, too,” MJ said, one eyebrow arched. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Sounds like _college_ ,” Peter replied. MJ laughed. No one could argue with that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Hey,” Clint sat on the desk at which Natasha was sitting, putting a large coffee mug in front of her. Natasha reached out and took it. 

“Hey yourself,” she replied, bumping his knee with her shoulder.  She sniffed the mug before taking a drink. It was peppermint tea, not coffee, of course. Clint was never forgetful.

“So what is it you have to tell me?” Clint asked. He smiled, but she could tell he was nervous. She hadn’t, after all, had wholly lovely things to tell him lately, and in their last private conversation she’d told him to beg a deity. She couldn’t blame his wariness. She hated that she could not assuage his fears, but Natasha was not in the habit of lying to Clint, nor was she in the habit of dancing around truths. Natasha prided herself on getting straight to the point, so that’s exactly what she did. She picked up a plain manila folder off her desk and handed it to him. His eyebrows drew together and he opened the file. His gaze flicked to the page, then back to her, focusing there and never wavering. “What is this, Natasha?”

“God is obviously not in the habit of granting prayers,” Natasha said. “It is what it says. The Winter Soldier has returned.” Clint’s gaze didn’t leave hers for a few more moments, but finally he looked down at the file again. He flicked to the next page, and then the next one. At first, he seemed to be genuinely reading the file, but then he flicked through at an impossible rate, just rifling through the considerable document. His eyes returned to hers.

“So what does this mean?” he asked. Natasha felt her heart stop for a moment. He was sincere. He was genuine. And he wasn’t asking about what it meant for the Avengers. Natasha pretended to misunderstand. It was easier that way, easier until she could process _his_ thought process.

“It means that Peter’s in even more danger than we thought,” Natasha replied. Clint nodded, willing to accept her misunderstanding for the moment.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he said. “We need to bring this to Steve and Tony now—Peter, too. Kid deserves to know what he’s up against.” Natasha did not try to hide emotion from her face and Clint easily picked up on her expression of discomfort. “What is it, Tasha?”

“There are things you don’t know,” Natasha said seriously, watching Clint carefully. “Things Steve doesn’t know, things we never intended to tell him.” Clint’s eyebrows knit together and his expression grew wary.

“What are you saying, Tasha?”

“I’m saying that ignorance is bliss,” Natasha replied. She stood, allowing herself to be at eye level with her partner. “But that you and I cannot afford ignorance. And eventually, neither can Steve. We can’t discuss this here, it’s not secure. But we _must_ discuss this.” She moved the mouse on her computer, logging herself out. She stood, taking the peppermint tea with her. “Time to go home for the day.” She grabbed her coat off the back of her chair, and Clint did nothing to object. He merely followed her out to the parking garage in silence. They got in their car. Clint started it up, and they drove out of the SHIELD facility. As soon as they saw daylight, Clint side eyed her.

“So what does any of this have to do with Steve?” he asked. “He wasn’t around for the Cold War. He was—well, he was out cold.” Natasha watched Clint’s weathered, callused hands slide across the leather of the steering wheel. She had an urge to reach out and cover one with hers, so she did. He glanced at her again, taking his eyes off the road for the briefest of moments. “Tasha?”

“I’ve told you about Yakov,” she said. “I’ve told you that he trained me, that he trained the others, that he taught us fighting styles and American mannerisms, that he taught us to blend in. No one could blend like Yasha. He was a ghost. What I didn’t tell you was _how_.” She took her hand off of his. She shook her head. “Get us home first.” Clint didn’t argue, but he did press the gas a bit harder. It didn’t take them all that long to reach their home in Brooklyn. They got to their parking spot, and Clint turned off the ignition. He looked at Natasha, giving her his undivided attention. Natasha appreciated that about Clint; he knew how to listen with everything he had.

“I didn’t want you to crash the car,” Natasha said by way of explanation as they sat there. “Yasha wasn’t Russian. Yasha was an American. I didn’t know where he’d come from or why he’d defected from his own country. I never asked, but given all evidence, I don’t think he knew, either. _Yakov_ is the Russian version of James. They let him keep his name, in a manner of speaking. His real name was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was a sniper in the US military during the second world war—before he got himself captured and experimented on by the Nazis, before he fell to what should have been his death if not for those experiments and was recovered by the Russians. I’ve been told his friends called him Bucky.” Clint sank back against the seat.

“ _Fuck_ ,”  he breathed. “And that’s—you’re sure?”

“Fury was the one who finally figured it out. Remember that op in Budapest just before New York happened?” Natasha asked.

“There is no forgetting Budapest,” Clint pointed out.

“Well, remember when I ripped his mask off?”

“And then you called him _Yashenka_ and he got all wide-eyed and just turned tail and ran? Yeah,” Clint said. Natasha did not miss his emphasis, but she chose to ignore it.

“Surveillance got a good picture. Coulson got a look at it while he was talking to Fury about the Avengers Initiative—and, what do you know, he’s a big enough fan boy that he recognized him from the old film reels,” Natasha said. “We compared the photos, and my memory of him and did a little extra digging. It’s definitely him.” Clint started laughing. Natasha’s brow drew together in confusion until he finally got hold of himself.

“I’ll be _damned_ ,” he said. “A fanboy manages in two seconds what the CIA and FBI and SHIELD and covert organizations the world over have been trying to do for _decades_ —discover the true identity of the Winter Soldier. We should dismantle all of our analyst divisions and just hand over our info to the internet and see what they make of it. _Coulson_. I’ll be damned.” His laughter died down, and finally he was left with a grave expression that matched Natasha’s own feelings on everything.

Well. Perhaps not on _everything_.

“What are we gonna do, Tasha?” he asked her.

“We’re not telling him. Not yet. Not the whole truth. We need to bring Yasha—James—in. That much is clear. But that’s—“ She thought about saying ‘not going to be easy’, but her mind was stuck more on ‘nearly impossible’. She had faced fierce foes before, but none so much so as Bucky Barnes. He had _trained_ her. He knew her fighting style, could predict her every move. And while her familiarity with him was an advantage as well, she wasn’t sure how either one of them would get the upper hand. “—Difficult. I have a few ideas for tracking him but…”

“That doesn’t sound like a good ‘but’,” Clint said. Natasha sighed and closed her eyes.

“But whatever trail there might have been earlier is gone now. I need a fresh trail, a fresh location, a new sighting,” she said.

“You need another attack,” Clint stated.

“Not necessarily. But that’s probably the only way we’ll see him, yes,” Natasha said reluctantly. “Until then…”

“We wait,” Clint finished for her. He cursed and shook his head. “Cap’s not gonna like this.”

“Neither will Tony or Peter and neither do we, but what choice do we have?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m not going to let that son of a bitch—” he glanced quickly at Natasha, briefly apologetic “—uh, _mercenary,_ hurt Peter.” For a moment, Natasha felt her heart skip a beat and adrenaline flood her veins. She could see an arrow stuck in James’ chest, his eyes glassy and unresponsive. She kept breathing normally and didn’t speak until she had herself under control.

“I know we might not have a choice here,” Natasha spoke slowly and evenly, “and if it comes down to it we must do everything in our power to protect Peter, and to protect Steve and Tony, but I’d like to use the least amount of force possible on this one. I hope you can respect that.” She felt Clint’s hand on her shoulder, and she met his eyes.

“Tasha, I didn’t mean I was going to go take the guy out permanently. I know what…I know what he means to…Steve. Cap’d never forgive me if I cut him down without trying to bring him to justice first,” Clint said haltingly. It was true. It was all true. But it certainly wasn’t what he’d meant to say. His hand fell from her shoulder. “We’ll fix this. We’ll fix this.”

_Will we_? Natasha wondered. Her former lover was a terrifying enemy to have. If he was after Peter, Peter would need to keep his wits about him at all times just to stay alive. And if they did manage to encounter him, it would be from a distance. They wouldn’t have that many options. Natasha felt ill. Probably morning sickness displaced to the afternoon.

“The kids will be back soon,” Natasha said, opening the car door and sliding out of her seat. Clint followed suit. “I’ll wait until Gwen gets here; you go find Steve and Tony and Peter and explain the situation. Not the _whole_ situation, just the relevant details. I’ll join you when I can, and we can start thinking up an effective strategy.” Clint nodded, but looked hesitant.

“He’s going to have to be told at some point, Tasha,” Clint said. “And—look, what if Bucky’s after him for personal reasons? What if the guy’s got some vendetta? Don’t you think _that’s_ pretty damn relevant?”

“The Winter Soldier is a hired gun,” Natasha said. “Someone else is pulling his trigger.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Clint said cautiously. “We never saw him again after Budapest. He could’ve been out there all this time, just waiting.”

“Waiting for what? Waiting until Steve’s son went to college to kill him? Why? It doesn’t make sense. If he was out there, holding a grudge against Steve for whatever reason, he would have shot him as soon as he came off ice, not twenty-three years later,” Natasha argued. “Besides, this isn’t Bucky’s style.”

“How so?”

“Bucky would never take out somebody’s family in revenge. Never,” she said.

“You can’t _know_ that,” Clint insisted, frustrated.

“Yes, I can, and I do,” Natasha snapped. “You don’t _know_ him, Clint.”

Clint was silenced for a moment as he watched her carefully. Natasha felt open and exposed. She always did around Clint, but rarely did it ever feel uncomfortable. This was one of the few moments when it did.

“Right,” Clint agreed. He opened the door to the car again, getting back in. Natasha opened the door on her side so she could talk to him better. He put the key in the ignition. Natasha’s stomach was twisting all over the place. She’d forgotten how much she disliked pregnancy.

“Clint,” she said softly. He sighed, then met her eyes again as the engine started up. “I just meant—I don’t think we should share this with Steve. Maybe you’re right. And if you are, that only makes everything a thousand times worse. Steve might be his mark, but it hardly matters for what _reasons_ right now. I’d rather explore the possibility of a puppeteer—if we can find the master, we might be able to cut the strings. If it’s just James gone rogue? We’re not going to have a choice but to put a bullet in his head. And what good is it going to do Steve, knowing that it’s James Barnes after him? What good will it do him to know that if he’s put in a position where _he’s_ the one who has to pull that trigger? It’s better this way, Clint. Just for now.”

“I don’t like this, for the record,” Clint said. “But you’re probably right. You usually are. I’ll give Steve the glossy rundown, but Tasha, at _some point_ , when we have a better idea of what’s going on, you _have_ to tell him. And I do think it would be best coming from you.”

“I know,” Natasha said. “I’m just not looking forward to it.” She climbed into the car to Clint’s surprise. She admired the look on his face briefly but cut him off with a kiss before he could ask what she was doing. He melted right into it. Natasha made sure it wasn’t a quick ‘see you later’ peck. She drew it out, keeping hold of the back of his head firmly so he didn’t dare pull away. Not that he seemed inclined to, anyway. When she finally released him, they were both breathless.

“What—“ he started to ask, but Natasha just interrupted him again.

“I’ll see you in an hour or so,” she said. She slid back out of the car and shut the door. Obviously bewildered, Clint shook his head and drove off. Natasha took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She really _was_ going to be ill. She went inside the house and made a bee line for the bathroom. Damn pregnancy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Formation 656!” Peter called out. He wasn’t sure how large the Triskelion really was—he was fairly certain there were floors to which the elevator had no buttons—but they were on the last floor down that Peter new existed. It was a massive chamber spanning a few thousand square feet. It looked a bit like an empty warehouse. It was a gym, but there was no equipment. There was only one tool, and it was the virtual reality simulator. One of his dad’s more brilliant inventions, the machine turned the room into whatever the programmer set. It was somewhat touchable, though the holographic structures, being from an older technology, could not support any weight.  Nevertheless, Peter could feel the hot sand beneath his feet. The computer was programmed to throw them into the desert and pit them against some of Dr. Strange’s doom bots.

Peter had been in the simulator a thousand times before. Well, it felt like that, anyway. His dads had been very insistent, when they discovered he was Spider-Man, that he get some extra formal training in. He had occasionally been in the simulator with a team of SHIELD agents, and a few times with his Pops, Aunt Nat, and Uncle Clint, but never the whole team. Dad didn’t like the simulator because he couldn’t really fly. Thor did not appreciate the fact that he could not summon lightning and that his own flight was limited in the room. And Hulk had apparently once broken through the wall to the control room and destroyed the machine, so he was out, too. Now, though, Peter had to work with a fully super powered team in the simulator and, well, it wasn’t going—nor had it been going—fantastically. They were a week into daily training, and Peter could only feel the team getting progressively worse.

Billy’s magic was messing with the programming, causing glitches every now and again. This only further irritated Billy, causing further magical issues, causing more programming problems, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. Eli had already ‘died’ six times, likely because he was refusing to listen to Peter’s direction and had a bit too much enthusiasm for running straight at the holographic bots. Cassie was having issues controlling the degree of her growth, and at the moment her head was bent over so it didn’t hit the ceiling. Not only that, but growth wasn’t exactly useful at the moment—it just made her a bigger target. He’d tried to tell her not to grow before their simulated fight began, but he’d been too late. With nowhere to run _to_ , Tommy was going a little stir crazy. He could run circles around the bots, but he’d discovered that, before they became discombobulated by his swirling vortex, they could get off a shot and every once out of ten tries they managed to hit him by sheer luck. It wasn’t an issue for their simulation, but it would sure as hell be an issue in the field. Teddy was turning out to be the most useful one; since he could shapeshift into the Thing or the Hulk or any other indestructible creature he liked, he could just barrel over the bots with ease. Kate was impressive, but she couldn’t help but throw out calls—calls that often conflicted with Peter’s plans and orders. The team gathered into the formation he commanded, but they did so slowly, almost reluctantly.

“No, Billy, 656—that’s—you need to be on the right—YOUR OTHER RIGH—aw, hell,” Peter said just as a distracted Billy moved straight into the line of fire of a bot and ‘died’. Peter took the bot out with a well placed shot of web, lassoing it and gumming up its guns.

“It’s _Wiccan_ ,” Billy shouted as he moved to the side to wait his five minutes before he could come back into the fight. Eli was still over there, as was Tommy. Cassie managed, finally, to shrink back down to size, and she just walked straight over to the side as well. She’d already ‘died’ as many times as Eli, not being able to block from the bots’ attacks, but she hadn’t been able to leave the simulation. They were down to three, and still nowhere near achieving their objective of retrieving the hostages locked in the building at the edge of the simulation. The bots were cleared for the moment, but the _real_ goal was to take out the giant ship in the ‘sky’ above them that was hurling the bots down in the first place.

“We need to end this! I’m just gonna go for it!” Teddy said.

“Teddy, _no—_ ” Peter protested as Teddy transformed into the Thing. He barreled through the bots and ran across to the warehouse. He wrenched open the door, throwing it clean off its hinges. All the simulated people ran out—just as more bots descended from the sky. Kate, who had seen this coming as clearly as Peter, sent off several rounds of arrows just as Peter yanked the people forward with a length of web, but it did no good. The bots had too much firepower—they took out all the holographic hostages. There was a loud siren sound. Peter clapped his hands over his overly-sensitive ears. The simulated scene disappeared, leaving them standing in the grey warehouse-like area; the siren stopped. Peter could now see the control area, with its clear window allowing a view inside—and more importantly, a view outside. Agent Hill stood watching, her hands crossed behind her back. She had been the one to start the simulation for them. Agent Coulson stood beside her now. Peter felt himself go hot with embarrassment.

“Well that went well,” Kate said dryly. Teddy looked incredibly guilty.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I thought we could, you know, get them to safety really quickly, it’s not that far of a run, and we didn’t have any ideas for how to take the ship out, so…” Teddy said helplessly.

“It’s all right, Altman,” Peter sighed. “I’m sorry, I should have told you—I was planning for Kate to use one of her explosive arrows at the ship once the way was clear enough that it wouldn’t get shot down. I should have said so earlier.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Kate agreed impatiently. She wasn’t mean about it, just obviously as embarrassed and annoyed as he was. 

“Great strategic work, Stark!” Eli said sarcastically as he and the others returned from the sidelines. “You’re doing a fantastic job keeping us all alive.”

“It’s not my job to keep you alive, that’s _your_ job. That’s _all_ of our job, to watch each other’s backs. My job is to get the team from point A to point B all together and get the mission _done_ ,” Peter said.

“Well, great job at that, too,” Tommy chimed in, rolling his eyes. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“I’ve got a better idea than you,” Peter shot back.

“Oh, touchy-touchy,” Tommy said, sounding delighted. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, Stark?”

The door to the room opened. Agents Hill and Coulson walked through. Peter bit his cheek to stop himself from engaging Tommy any further, then turned to meet the agents.

“Well that was…informative,” Agent Hill decided on at last. Peter felt his cheeks go hot with embarrassment. Informative—yes, he was sure it was. It showed where all of their weak spots were. It showed that they had no capacity for working together. It showed that Peter _could not lead_ , that he had no natural talent for it. He was sure it had been _very_ informative for the observing agents.

“We suck, you can say it,” Tommy volunteered. Agent Hill just looked down at her clipboard.

“Tommy, you died four times. Eli, you’ve got a count of six. Cassie, you were at six, too. Billy, you’re twice dead. Teddy, Kate, and Peter—congrats on not dying, but maybe you should be assisting your less adept teammates,” Agent Hill advised.

“I think what Agent Hill means is that everybody could do to work on their listening skills,” Agent Coulson said as sour expressions spread to the four ‘dead’ teammates.

“I think you’ve been in that school too long, you’re starting to sound like you’ve gone native,” Agent Hill observed. Agent Coulson just shrugged. Peter had no idea what they were talking about, but he didn’t really care. His teammates looked just as annoyed at being told they needed to listen better as they did at being called ‘less adept’.

“I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you all hit the showers? Except—Peter, stay behind a minute?” Agent Coulson requested, and Peter felt his stomach drop. Coulson really _did_ sound like a teacher, and it was never a good thing when a teacher told you to _stay behind a minute_. That usually meant they were about to chew you out harder than anybody else. The rest of the team left along with Agent Hill, and Peter caught smug smiles on Eli, Billy, and Tommy’s faces. They knew what ‘staying behind’ meant, too. The door closed once more.

“Look, it’s just the first week,” Peter began, ready to plead his case, but Coulson shook his head, maintaining his general polite smile.

“I understand that. I wanted to check in with how you’re integrating with the team,” he said.

“Oh,” Peter replied.

“And? How are you getting along?”

“Well, I guess the short answer is, ‘we’re not’,” Peter said honestly. “They’re not exactly my biggest fans.”

“And you’re theirs?” Coulson questioned. The corners of Peter’s mouth tugged downwards. “I see. Do you want some advice, Peter?”

“Yes,” Peter readily accepted.

“Good. Here’s my advice: what’s Kate’s favorite flavor of ice cream?” Coulson asked. Peter’s brain struggled to find the logic in his non sequitr, but he wasn’t doing so well.

“Um. I. Are you telling me to take the team out for ice cream?” Peter asked, puzzled. Coulson smiled.

“Couldn’t hurt. But no. What’s her favorite flavor? What subject in school does Cassie hate the most? Does Eli like dogs? Billy and Tommy look a lot alike—are they related? How is Teddy a shapeshifter? Answer those questions, and maybe you’ll fix your problem,” he said. He left the room abruptly, leaving Peter to ruminate on his meaning.

“Are you done primping yet, darling?” Tony’s voice drawled from the bedroom. Steve had been completely in favor of staying home the whole day—Tony didn’t have any meetings he couldn’t rearrange, and they still had no leads on the assassin. He had some SHIELD agents poking about with their contacts, but he wasn’t honestly hopeful that they’d turn anything up. So Steve and Tony had mostly lazed around all day at his insistence. But an hour ago Tony had gotten it into his head that they should go out somewhere special for dinner, which meant actually getting ready for the day. Well, the afternoon or evening, anyway. Steve was still busy shaving.

“I’ll _primp_ as long as I want,” Steve called back. He heard Tony snort. Steve shaved the last bit of his jaw, then put his straight razor back in the medicine cabinet. He grabbed a towel and toweled off his face, then observed it in the mirror, turning to the right and the left to make sure no shaving cream remained. It was a routine. It was a routine he was very used to, even if it was hours and hours after he used to complete it. He’d done this every day since he’d hit puberty. It was familiar, comfortable. He could still remember the first time he shaved after the serum, how strange it had been. There were subtle differences even in his face—he was no longer quite so pallid or gaunt. Everything had filled out and given him a healthy glow he’d never possessed. It had been a very strange morning, but he’d never experienced such strangeness since. No, he’d always been the same.

Steve put his hands on either side of the sink, leaning closer to the mirror, his brow scrunched together in concentration. He had _always_ been the same. He could remember several mornings when Tony came out of the bathroom, cursing about a new wrinkle he hadn’t noticed, or more gray hair (Steve had assured him that he thought the salt-and-pepper look was very sexy, but it seemed to comfort him little). Steve had always noticed the changes in Tony, no matter how gradual they might be, and while he still saw a sexy man, he undoubtedly saw an _older_ man. Steve ran a hand down the smooth plane of his face. He had no wrinkles, not even little crow’s feet. He thought there were a couple of gray hairs on his head, but as he pulled them forward, he wondered if Tony hadn’t had a point, if they were just even blonder highlights in his light colored hair.

Steve slowed his breathing. He hadn’t realized it had quickened until he realized his right hand was trembling. He stared in the mirror, trying to parse out some change, but his reflection stared back at him, the same reflection he’d had on that first morning in 1943. His knuckles were white. In. Out. In. Out.

It was just part of the serum. Peak of physical perfection. It didn’t mean he wasn’t aging. He’d changed in subtler ways, hadn’t he? He would just move into his fifties in a different _way_ than Tony had. And anyway, Tony was seventeen years older than him—it was to be expected that he had graying hair and a few wrinkles. But Steve was only 48—even without the serum, who was to say he’d have any of those things? 48 wasn’t _that_ old. The ice had stopped his aging. _The ice_. 

“Did you get lost in there?” Tony inquired. Steve had just enough time to compose himself into a much more relaxed stance before Tony popped in through the door.

“It is a very large bathroom,” Steve replied dryly. Tony’s smile didn’t meet his eyes.

“Are you okay, Steve?” he asked.

“M’fine,” Steve answered. “And done. Just let me get dressed and we can head out.” His hands slid off the smooth surface of the sink and he walked past his husband to the closet. He could feel Tony’s eyes following him, but the doorbell rang, saving Steve from having to think about this anymore.

“I’ve got it,” Tony said before heading down the stairs. By the time Steve finished dressing, Tony had not re-emerged, so he headed down the stairs too. Clint was on the sofa, talking quietly with Tony who sat beside him. They looked up when they heard his footsteps.

“Steve,” Clint said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey Gwen?” Peter asked as they walked down Fifth Avenue, window shopping. They’d gotten a quick dinner together at a pizza place and then decided just to walk around for a bit before they had to go their separate ways. Peter still had midterms to study for, after all. Even though they didn’t have much time, Peter had taken Gwen’s hand on impulse and dragged her, both of them giggling the whole way, into the giant Build-A-Bear Workshop. Peter had insisted they go through the whole process, and Gwen didn’t protest much. Gwen now carried a little box that held a bear dressed like Spider-Man, inside which a heart kissed by Peter was sewn inside.

“Hmm?” Gwen asked, still looking through the glass windows of Nintendo World with a smile.

“Thanks for not dumping me,” he finally decided on. Gwen turned to look at him then, bemused.

“You’re welcome, I guess? What should I have dumped you over? Maybe you’re speaking too soon,” she teased. Peter smiled.

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. “I just—you know. You didn’t dump me over the whole _being shot at_ thing.”

“That wasn’t your _fault,_ Peter,” Gwen pointed out.

“Not exactly, no, but it doesn’t change the fact that you could have been hurt, you could have been _killed_ and—” Peter swallowed and slowed himself down. “I’m just—I know that being around me comes with some inherent risks and—and I’m really glad you’re still here, but…I won’t ever blame you if you don’t stick around.” 

“You do realize that when I started dating you the first thing that happened was you stood me up because you had been _kidnapped_ , right?” Gwen asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I think I’ve been pretty well aware of the risks from the start.” She took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Right,” he said. “Of course. I just—it’s one thing to know and another to be _shot at_.”

“Technically, it was still you who was being shot at,” Gwen said.

“I was the _target_ but you were still _in the line of fire_. And that’s—that’s kind of what I’m getting at Gwen. You…I’m afraid that’s not going to be the last time that you are,” Peter said nervously.

“My Dad’s the Police Chief of New York City. Do you know how many death threats and threats on his family he gets _per day_?” Gwen asked, raising an eyebrow. “I hate to deflate your ego, but if I’m getting kidnapped or shot at or anything _,_ it might not even be _about you_. So don’t get all weirdly protective on me, ok? I know what I’m doing.” Peter really smiled then. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he readily agreed with her, then kissed her on the cheek. They started walking down the street again, abandoning Nintendo World.

“So is that what this is?” Gwen asked, holding up the bear’s box. “A ‘thanks for having no sense of self-preservation and not dumping my arachnid ass’ gift?”

“Why, Gwen Stacy, I didn’t know ladies used language like that,” Peter said mockingly. Gwen rolled her eyes.

“It totally is, then.”

“Not really,” Peter disagreed. “It’s an ‘I really appreciate your existence’ gift.” Gwen laughed.

“You really appreciate my existence, huh?”

“Mhmm.”

“I think you appreciate certain things _about_ my existence,” Gwen said, her tone entirely suggestive in a way that went straight to Peter’s groin.

“Well. You’re not wrong,” Peter replied. Gwen laughed again. Peter wished he could hear her laugh all day. He wished he could put that sound on repeat and play it over and over and over.

“Shame we can’t go back to your apartment,” Gwen said, sounding genuinely disappointed. Gwen still lived with her parents in Manhattan; it only made sense—free food, free laundry, and only a fifteen minute commute to school. But it _did_ complicate things; even when they _could_ go back to his apartment, it wasn’t like Gwen could stay the night. Her parents would want to know where she’d been. Peter, of course, was still at home in Brooklyn. He was afraid that he would be until the whole shooter business was resolved; or, at least, until his dads calmed down about it a bit.

“I know,” Peter groaned. “Maybe it’s better that way, though. I really do have to study for my midterms tonight.”

“We could always study together,” Gwen said.

“I don’t think I’d be able to think about anything but you,” Peter said, not really thinking before he said it. He blushed a bit. _Way to be cheesy, Stark_. But Gwen just gave him a seductive little grin.

“That’s the idea.” Peter barely stifled a moan.

“Ok, you’re officially going to be the ruin of my academic career. Where’s the nearest subway station?” Peter asked, looking around and pulling away from her. She laughed and just pulled him back. He smiled. She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him. Peter could see their breath in the air. When they pulled apart he rest his forehead on hers.

“I really do have to go,” he murmured.

“I know,” Gwen sighed. “Just…wait a minute.”

Well. A minute Peter could do.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some might consider this part tedious, he reflected. Some might consider this part annoying. But for him, this was the part that separated him from any other mercenary _._ This was the _artistic_ part of his endeavors. He looked at the schedule in his hands.

 

_Monday_ -

_Tuesday_ 9-11 Physics, 12-2 Calculus III, 2-4 Photography I

_Wednesday_ 9-11 Electromagnetics and Applications, 2-4 Artificial Intelligence

_Thursday_ 8-10 Quantum Physics I, 10-12 String Theory for Undergraduates

_Friday_ -

 

But how best to use it? He could find the classrooms, get to know the paths between them, predict the best place to be. He would take him from a distance; it would be simple enough. But there would be nothing _special_ about it, and his employer _had_ requested _special_.

“The goal is _pain_ ,” he had said ruthlessly. “Make it as _horrific_ as you can. I want to see the man _suffer_.”

He was not one to question orders. The man wanted spectacle, not just a quick, silent kill as most of his employers through the years had requested. He didn’t usually do spectacle. He took marks so quickly and unexpectedly that no one knew what had happened until it was all over and he was long gone. He was an assassin, not a sadist, a hired gun, not a serial killer. But his employer _was_. It had not escaped his attention. No one could take more than a single look at that madman and not know it.

He had initially ignored the request for spectacle. He would kill the boy in his apartment and have done with it. He slipped his calling card on the back of the bullet as his employer requested, and he had expected that to be the end of it. But it _hadn’t_. The boy had known. He sipped at his coffee, listening subtly to the students in the cafe. Most of their chatter was useless, but he had a habit of paying attention to even seemingly useless things.

It was a fantastic puzzle; how had the boy known to get out of the way? He had to be genetically enhanced in some fashion. He hadn’t been informed the boy was a mutant. He supposed his employer didn’t know. He doubted it was mind reading; he had been quite far away for the boy to take notice of his thoughts. If it was clairvoyance, he wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to take out his mark, and that irked him. Perhaps it was something else. Super hearing, maybe. Who _wouldn’t_ move at the sound of a gunshot?

“—really great! Definitely gallery worthy, MJ.” The redhead had laid out a set of photographs on the table.

“Since I showed you mine, will you show me _yours_?” MJ asked coyly. 

“Nope! I told you, you have to wait for tomorrow,” the boy replied.

“No fair,” MJ said.

“ _Life’s_ not fair,” the boy countered. Yakov sipped his coffee. The boy had that much correct.

“Are your parents coming to the gallery?” MJ asked.

“You just want to meet Iron Man and Captain America,” the boy said.

“Duh. Are they coming?” MJ said. The boy laughed at her honesty.

“Yeah, yeah they’re coming.” Yakov perked up his ears a bit at that. A gallery, tomorrow, for the photography class. It shouldn’t be difficult to find that location. It would be crowded and filled with students and parents, and, notably, his real target. His real target would have to bear witness to his own son’s death. Spectacle? Pain? It met both requirements quite nicely.

“Mine too,” MJ said, picking up the photographs and putting them in her bag. They were both standing up, getting ready to exit the cafe. “I think you’ll like them!”

“Oh, meeting the parents already, are we? I’m not sure I’m ready for this stage in our relationship, MJ,” the boy teased as he held open the door for her.

“No? Do you mean you _aren’t_ getting ready to propose? Gosh and golly gee—“ whatever MJ was to say next, Yakov did not hear it as the glass doors shut behind them. Casually he rose and arrived at the bulletin board. Sure enough, there was a flyer for the students’ photography gallery. Time, date, location.

Well, it wasn’t exactly his style. But it would do.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Clint Barton’s life had always been a very strange one. When he looked at it objectively, he was never quite sure how a carnie ended up a SHIELD agent or how that SHIELD agent ended up on a superhero team with a bunch of superhumans or how that Avenger ended up living with his super deadly dream girl or how that couple ever ended up with children. Clint had simply decided not to question his good fortune, but now that the tides were slowly turning, now that the waters looked choppy and the start of real trouble could be seen on the horizon, Clint took a good look at his life. Clint took a good look at his choices. Trouble was, he wouldn’t take a damn one of them back.

Clint took a bite of his pizza. It was freezing, but he was eating outside his favorite restaurant. They didn’t have any tables, but he didn’t want a table. He just wanted pizza. They’d been very puzzled, but put his order in anyway. He’d taken a seat at one of the abandoned metal tables outside the cafe next door, opened the box, and dug in. It was Cap, after all, who couldn’t take the cold. Clint was from Iowa. His not-wife was from Russia. Cold didn’t really bother him all that much.

Other things did though. The whole not-wife thing did, if he was being honest. It didn’t bother him _a lot_. He couldn’t imagine it bothered him as much as it would Cap, for instance. He couldn’t remember how many times Steve Rogers angsted over the whole ‘living in sin’ thing to him before he finally got hitched to Stark. It had been their whole problem in the first place, after all, and while Steve could compromise, could give him space, could wait a little longer, it still rubbed him the wrong way entirely. No, at this point, if he had Steve’s moral hang ups, he and Natasha would have already split.

Natasha wasn’t like Tony. Tony had commitment problems because he was Tony Stark. He had commitment problems because he, like the rest of them, really, had a shit filled past and didn’t feel worthy of love or some other utter bullshit like that. Tony Stark had commitment problems because he was deeply afraid of fucking things over and hurting everyone else in the process. Tony Stark was the weirdest combination of selfless and selfish Clint Barton had ever come across. Natasha was not Tony Stark. Natasha had no commitment problems. Natasha had nothing against the institution of marriage. Natasha was not afraid of hurting Clint. Natasha just needed _space_.

Space was really the best way Clint could describe it. Natasha needed a gap. She needed some degree of separation. He knew her, inside and out, in every way it was possible to know a person, but there was always just a tiny sliver of _space_. She knew him better than he knew her, of that he had no doubts. Tony Stark was like fire—get even just too _close_ to the heat, and you might burn alive. Natasha was like water—safe until you were in too deep. Natasha knew this about herself, and she didn’t like anyone diving deep into her psyche. So she kept just the slightest space. She could talk about the red room, but only in generalities, never specifics. She could live with Clint for years, could have children with him, but not marry him. Generals, not specifics. Natasha did not do hard or fast definition, because the moment she defined something, it sank like a rock in the water.

Clint had never called Natasha his girlfriend. He had never asked her to be his wife. He had never asked her to move in with him—one month he just realized she’d never gone back home. Children were quite specific—they had been a difficult concession for her, Clint knew. Sometimes he feared that he’d pressured her into it, subtly presented an ultimatum he’d never spoken aloud. They always spoke without speaking, but what if he’d said something he’d never meant to? Even if that was what happened, though, Clint knew that Natasha loved their children. Clint knew she had grown to enjoy their company more than she had ever expected. So Clint could handle generals. He knew how she felt. He’d always known how she felt. He could read Natasha no better than anyone else when she was hiding something, truly hiding something, because Natasha was the scariest agent Clint had ever come across. But she never hid anything from him. Well, almost never. He could feel it in his gut how she felt. That was enough.

But lately his gut had been squirming, and it had nothing to do with indigestion. Clint chewed his pizza. It was delicious, but he hardly tasted it. He heard a whining sound and looked down. There was a dog standing on the sidewalk by him. It looked like a golden retriever, not a mutt. It looked like the kind of dog you’d expect to find in a house like Clint’s, surrounded by kids and hassled parents, the beloved pet that’s there for everybody on their bad days and their best. Except that the thing was thin and a bit mangy and only had one eye.

“What, you want pizza?” Another whine. “I know the feeling.” He tossed the dog a slice. It gobbled it up pretty quickly. Clint wasn’t surprised. The thing looked hungry. Clint could remember hungry. He tossed him another. The dog laid down and kept this piece between its paws, savoring it a bit more. Clint took another bite, trying to savor his own slice. He was, after all, on his lunch break. He should try to enjoy it.

But he usually took his breaks with Natasha. He’d made some excuse for having to take his later than hers. Something something too much paperwork something something go on ahead without me, something something grab something later. But really he just needed a minute to clear his head, time to think about her without her eyes trained on his, without that stare trying to deconstruct his every thought. He didn’t know what he thought. He thought he no longer knew what was going through Natasha’s head. He thought she was in love with Yakov. No, actually, that he knew. But how much in love? Deeply. She must still be deeply in love with him. She had only ever spoken in generalities, but Clint had only ever needed generalities about Yakov to understand.

“We kept each other human,” she had told him one night. He had asked her if there was anything she missed about Russia. It had pained him to hear her talk about another man when he had expected architecture or white snow or the language, but he had understood. He had given her an opportunity to speak about something, and he wasn’t going to take it back. “Until they took him away.”

“What happened to him? After the war?” Clint had asked.

“I don’t know.”

“…Do you want to?” Clint thought, perhaps, they could track him down. If it was what she really wanted, they could find him and go from there. He would do that for her, if that was what she wanted, what she needed. He loved her that much. But Natasha’s expression had been so pained then, and Clint realized what he had asked. What happened to a Russian assassin following the demise of the USSR? Nothing pretty was a good bet.

“I don’t think so,” she said. That had been the end of that.

Clint figured the guy was dead. Natasha obviously had, too, at that point. Then they’d found him in Budapest, and Clint didn’t know what to make of that. She hadn’t either, but she’d never shown any desire to chase after him. But did that mean she wouldn’t, this time around?

And she was pregnant again. Clint didn’t even want to think about it. He wanted it. He wanted it badly. The moment she’d told him, it was like a dream had already set in his mind, and he could see a third little kid running around their already chaotic family of four. He could see a little baby, smiling up at him. But Natasha didn’t _want_ the pregnancy. Clint was fairly certain of that. She’d said she’d think about it, take his opinion into account, and Clint knew that she would. But, in the end, it was her body, and logically he couldn’t think of any reason why Natasha would put up with being pregnant again. The first time had been difficult enough for her.

His life, he knew, was about to spiral. He could see the waves about to crash around him, could feel the undertow about to grip him and take hold, but he could do nothing about it. Nature would take its course, whether he willed it or not.

Clint looked down at the dog, which was again staring at him with big brown eyes.

“Aw hell,” he said, tossing him his own slice, the last slice of pizza. He wasn’t tasting it anyway. “You must be damn lucky to be alive in the middle of winter like this.” He watched the dog tear the piece of pizza apart. It was freezing cold outside—it must have found somewhere warm to hole up. But for how long would that last? Eventually, animal control would come and find it. They’d put it in a shelter for a little while, and then they’d kill it because nobody wanted it and it was a drain on resources. Clint wondered what Natasha would say if he brought a dog home. He slid off his chair and knelt on the ground briefly, patting the dog on the head. Maybe he was horribly sentimental, but he just couldn’t leave the dog there. He stood up, beckoning the dog.

“Come on, pizza dog,” he called to it. It padded after him, sticking to his side.

Natasha, he figured, wouldn’t say anything about the dog if the kids had fallen in love with it first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This was a familiar scene for the both of them, really. Tony had decades of experience of schmoozing around at art galleries, making comments like he knew what he was talking about while Pepper rolled her eyes and sighed loudly (or later, when a look from Steve kept him from jabbering on in the first place). Yet this was not Tony’s kind of art gallery. For one thing, the lobby of ESU’s administrative building was hardly a swanky location. For another, there was no alcohol (not that Tony would be drinking, anyway). Lastly, all the photography was amateurish at best and filtered through six thousand standard programs on photoshop at worst. Other parents wandered about, taking a look at everything on offer, but everybody knew anybody was only there for one picture. Hadn’t they passed the ‘look at this adorable thing my kid did’ stage in elementary school?

Not that _Tony’s_ kid ever did anything short of incredible. He hadn’t seen the photographs yet as Steve insisted on stopping at every single picture and considering it from an artistic point of view, but he was sure they were pretty good. Weirdly Peter had gotten Steve’s artistic talent (which, Tony figured, begged the question if art was a matter of nature over nurture, of inherent talent over practice?) so his drawings and the like were always good. Tony couldn’t help but be proud of him all the time. As such, tony was happy to attend the little university gallery for Peter even if the idea of the gallery itself annoyed him. Peter hadn’t even seemed to care if they showed or not, but Steve had, at first mention, jumped right in and assured him they would be there.

“This looks like it belongs on the instagram of a sixteen-year-old from 2012,” Tony muttered under his breath as Steve stopped at yet another picture, this one of a latte on a coffee table in Starbucks.

“Maybe it’s a _commentary_ on early instagram,” Steve said, doing his best to be courteous and fixing Tony with a pointed glare. Tony shrugged.

“What about that one? Is it impressionist, darling?” he asked sarcastically, pointing out a blurry photograph of some kid’s dog. Steve’s mouth set into a hard frown.

“It _might be_ ,” Steve said, but even Tony could tell he was losing his capacity to respect the students’ work. Steve reached out and took his hand, looking at him reproachfully, “I know you’re bored, but _be nice_ , Tony.” Tony just harrumphed in response, biting back a sarcastic reply because he liked the warm comfort of Steve’s hand in his. Steve, for his part, thankfully seemed to have given up on stopping at each display, and they searched for Peter’s section.

“Dad! Pops! Over here,” Peter called to them. He stood by a display nearby, chatting with a pretty redhead Tony hadn’t ever seen before. The girl obviously said her goodbyes and walked off somewhere else—though where in this crowd Tony didn’t know. He could already tell that Peter’s photos had gotten prime real estate in the gallery, situated on a bigger display with some of the better photos. Most of the parents crowded around this one spot, which made it difficult for him and Steve to get through to Peter.

Tony, of course, already knew the subject matter, having been recruited for participation. But Peter hadn’t let them see the finished product; tony was unsurprised to find that they were beautiful and artistic and certainly a _statement_.

His display had no title, but it didn’t need one. It held various depictions of the Avengers. What was different, of course, was the content. There was one of Steve, making pancakes in the immaculate kitchen while Tony sat at the table reading a newspaper. It would be a normal domestic scene except that Steve was dressed as Captain America, the shield leaning up against his knee on the floor, and Tony was in the suit, faceplate down. There was a picture of Natasha and Clint falling asleep together on the couch, dressed in their SHIELD gear. Clint’s arm dangled off the couch, clutching his bow. Natasha held close a throwing knife. On the flood before them was scattered a variety of children’s books and toys, and Ana and Will, faces away from the camera, played _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ , the loudest game known to man. They were the picture of two exhausted parents with their energetic kids—except for the costumes. Thor changed his daughter’s diaper in full regalia as Jane slept in a rocking chair in the corner. Bruce, notably, was the only one to have a domestic picture sans costume. Peter had chosen a scene of him working in his lab. But then there was the flip side to Peter’s photos, the side that Tony figured was more powerful.

Peter had to ‘shop most of it (something which, Tony had been assured, was actually required for part of the project), but it was a series of photographs in which the Avengers fought without armor, without costume. Bruce, still dressed in his button down, roared at an Asgardian Bildshnipe the size of the Hulk. Steve, covered in blood, sweat and grime, fought an enemy skrull with nothing but his bare hands, no shield in sight. There was a shot of Clint leaping off a building, bow poised with a grappling hook arrow nocked and ready, but in his jeans and _Bladerunner_ t-shirt he looked much more vulnerable. Natasha, who was always fierce whatever she was wearing, ducked aside from a Chitauran gun in the middle of firing—a blast that would have killed her easily if she hadn’t managed to move. Tony himself was grounded, hands extended like he still had the armor on, like he had repulsors to use, as AIM agents surrounded him, all armed.

The pieces were a clever commentary on Peter’s own perspective, and Tony loved it. Steve was even more thrilled, immediately complimenting Peter on his use of lighting, on the overall composition, and some other artsy things that Tony had only ever bothered to develop a cursory understanding of so that he could show off his bullshit to people who had no idea he was bullshitting. When Steve took a breath, he merely said to Peter,

“Good job, kiddo.” Peter beamed anyway, and suddenly he was six again, and showing Tony a sketch he’d drawn of Iron Man. He’d smiled just the same when Tony had done the parental thing and put the drawing on the fridge. Tony looked away. He was getting so _sentimental_ in his old age.

Then he snorted at his own thoughts. _Getting,_ Stark? He focused his attention on some of the other photographs. There was a set of black and white photographs he liked in particular—they were pictures of aftermath. There was a lot of _aftermath_ in New York City. But instead of focusing on the negative, the photographer focused on people. There was a man, dark blood running down the side of his face, smiling as the EMTs took care of him. Tony could see Captain America in the background, handling clean up. It was obvious enough that he’d saved the man’s life, even if he was a little banged up. There was a picture of a little girl clutching a cat to her chest, tears in her eyes but the biggest smile in the world on her face as a fireman knelt in front of her, obviously the savior of her dear beloved pet, even as her apartment burned in the background. They were all of the small triumphs in the face of disaster, the good in the bad.

“Who took these?” he asked Peter, gesturing to the display.

“That would be MJ,” Peter replied. He looked around, then called out, “MJ!” The redhead he’d been speaking with earlier turned around. Peter waved her over. She came, her parents—or who Tony assumed to be her parents—following just slightly behind her. As she got within earshot Peter said, “MJ, my Dad really likes your photos.” The redhead—who reminded Tony of Pepper because most bright little redheads did, unless they reminded him of Natasha and that was a rare occurrence—grinned widely.

“Iron Man likes my photos? _Sweet_ ,” she said. Her parents arrived just a moment later. Tony’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out where he’d seen them before. He forgot faces all the time, but he’d _definitely_ seen Dad #1 before, though Dad #2 didn’t ring any bells. Tony was mentally going through every fling he’d ever had with a guy, hoping that he hadn’t been one. It was when Tony saw Steve’s stunned expression that Tony realized he knew _exactly_ where he’d seen the guy before. He hadn’t been one of Tony’s flings at all.

“Ty?” Steve said, incredulous. “Ty _Watson_?”

 

He’d been _Steve’s_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ty? Ty _Watson_?” Pops blurted out, staring at on of MJ’s dads in incredulity. He got a big smile back.

“Steve Rogers, well I’ll be damned. MJ told me she’d met your son Peter, but I didn’t think you’d be here. It’s good to see you,” MJ’s dad, Ty Watson, apparently, spoke. He was a police officer, Peter knew from talking with MJ. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties—the same age that Pops was, sort of, even if he didn’t look it. He had dark hair and MJ’s green eyes. The two gravitated towards each other and embraced in that weird manly-hug thing Peter had never fully understood.

“It’s—it’s _crazy_ seeing you here. I didn’t know you had a daughter. And you got married!” Pops exclaimed. MJ’s Dad just laughed.

“And got _old_ —you’re missing the obvious, here, though it’s very polite of you. Jesus, Steve, you haven’t aged a _day_ ,” Ty Watson said, obviously a bit awed by that. Peter might have imagined it, but he thought Pops’ smile got a little tight.

“Well, some of us are blessed with experimental super soldier genes—I age well,” Pops said, obviously joking.

“Dad! You never told me you knew _Captain America!_ ” MJ said indignantly. “Did you guys do a mission together? Dad, did your force _team up with the Avengers_? Because I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that stor—“

“No, no, my force didn’t team up with the Avengers at any point,” Ty Watson said, laughing. “I _didn’t_ know Captain America. I knew Steve Rogers, Brooklyn history buff and best damn sketch artist in the NYPD. That was back in—what, 2012, 2013?”

“We met in ’12, dated in ’13,” Pops supplied.

“You _dated_ Captain America?!” MJ exclaimed at the same time as Peter said, “You dated _other people_?”

“I’m not a _monk_ , Peter,” Pops said, looking thoroughly amused.

Peter knew that. He knew Pops wasn’t some innocent angel that the press often made him out to be, that _Captain America_ , as a myth, _had_ to be. But he hadn’t really ever considered that he might have dated anyone else in the twenty-first century than Dad. He’d known about Peggy, the tragic love of his life who was in her nineties when he returned, too late. He’d _wondered_ about Bucky Barnes, Pops’ best friend who seemed ever present in any story he was willing to tell about _before_. But he had never asked, and he had certainly never wondered about the short amount of time when Pops was off the ice but _not_ with Dad.

“He _wasn’t_ Captain America,” Ty patiently explained to his daughter.

“Yeah but you _knew_ , didn’t you? You had to! We went to that, that _thing_ every year, the Brooklyn memorial thing. You _had_ to know,” MJ said, equally _im_ patient.

“I don’t think _Captain America_  would have appreciated being accidentally outed by a six-year-old bragging to her first grade class,” Ty pointed out. MJ just huffed. Ty rolled his eyes at her, then turned back to Steve. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you again—did I introduce my husband? This is Blake—“

“Nice to meet you,” Blake spoke, offering his hand. MJ’s other father was another handsome man, also a brunette. Steve took it.

“Nice to meet you, too. Of course, Ty, you must remember Tony,” Steve said. Ty’s smile was sardonic.

“Not likely to forget. How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” Tony replied shortly. Peter was a tad surprised by his dad’s shortness.

“And you must be Peter,” Ty said, turning his gaze to him. “MJ’s told us quite a bit about you.”

“ _Dad_ don’t _do_ that, you make it sound like—“ MJ complained

“Your photographs here are wonderful,” Ty finished, ignoring MJ pointedly.

“Thanks, Mr. Watson,” Peter said. He sent a teasing little smirk to MJ who narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms in yet another huff.

They sustained a conversation for a while about the aesthetics of the photographs, and about what a silly idea it was to have a gallery for parents halfway through a university semester. Peter couldn’t help but notice that Pops’ eyes were fairly well fixed on Ty Watson. Ty Watson’s were pretty well fixed on him, too. _So weird_.

“I’m getting some punch. I saw punch. Do you want some Steve?” Dad said abruptly.

“No, that’s ok, I’m fine, thanks Tony,” Pops replied.

“Oh, I want some punch—Peter let’s go get some punch—and cookies! There are sugar cookies!” MJ said enthusiastically.

“I think I’ll go, too,” Blake Watson said. He gave his husband a small, pointed smile before following his daughter away.

 

Oh. _Oh_. Peter got the belated hint and scampered after them.

 

* * *

 

 Steve watched as his family and Ty’s disappeared in the crowd, headed for the refreshments table. Tony wasn’t happy, Steve could tell that, but for once Steve wasn’t all that concerned. Tony was just jealous—for absolutely no reason—so he could sort that out later. He _had_ wanted to be alone with Ty. Tony had picked up pretty well on that nonverbal cue, but he didn’t want to be alone with the man so that they could begin some secret love affair (which was probably what Tony’s grumpy mind was assuming at the moment). He wanted to be alone with him just to talk.

“Thank you,” Steve said finally. Ty looked puzzled.

“What for?” he asked.

“Not publicly outing me. Not breathing a word about it for all those years,” Steve said.

“Steve, of _course_ I wouldn’t,” Ty said. “What kind of scumbag would do that?”

“No, I didn’t mean—that must have come out wrong—I just meant—”

“Slow down before you hurt yourself,” Ty cautioned with a small laugh. “I didn’t take offense. I just meant…no one should ever do that to another person. You don’t need to _thank_ me for being a decent human being.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve said. “If you’d been anybody else—the way I treated you? The way we broke things off? Anybody else would’ve outed me to the press.”

“Well, then ‘anybody else’ would be a horrible person,” Ty said. He looked very amused. “And I’m not sure how _you_ think we broke up, but if I recall correctly, _I_ was the one walking out the door.” The smile faded from his face. “Really, if anybody has an apology to make about what happened, it’s me. I pushed you. I asked you to violate what I assume were your _orders_ to keep everything a secret. I knew who you were. If I really thought about it, I knew you trusted me, but you’d only really _known_ me for, what, four months? That wasn’t fair of me. I don’t know why I couldn’t just…wait it out. See how things went.”

“I was _lying_ to you, of course you felt like you had to go,” Steve disagreed. Ty grinned again.

“Look at us, both trying to take the blame for what happened. Have you ever had such a ridiculous conversation?” Ty asked. Steve laughed.

“No, I guess not,” he said. He looked over to the refreshment table. He could see MJ and Peter laughing. Tony finally cracked a smile, and Ty’s husband seemed to be enjoying himself.

“It all worked out in the end though, didn’t it?” Ty said. There was a genuine note of contentment in his voice, and Steve knew Ty must be looking at his own husband and daughter the same way Steve looked at _his_ family. He turned and gave Ty a smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, it did. So, MJ—is she adopted, or…?” Steve trailed off.

“No, she’s mine. Do you remember Madeline?” Ty asked.

“The journalist always coming in after stories? Sure,” Steve said. She was a fierce woman with a lot of opinions. Steve was only ever grateful that he held up under her scrutiny.

“We started dating not long after you and I broke things off. When she got pregnant, we got married. She got breast cancer, though, and died when MJ was three. I married Blake four years later; MJ was seven,” Ty explained.

“Oh, Ty, I’m so sorry,” Steve said. He was a little shocked to think of Madeline, brilliant, feisty Madeline, as dead. He had not really thought of her since, but he assumed—as he assumed with all passing acquaintances since gone from his life—that she had continued to live her happy life somewhere. It was disorienting to be told she was dead.

“She was a wonderful woman,” Ty sighed. “But MJ—I look at her, and I see Madeline. Not just in her face, but in her _spirit_. That girl is a firecracker, and she’s going to change the world someday. I know that in my heart.” A small smile creeped in a the edges of his mouth.

“I’m sure she will,” Steve agreed. “She’s certainly enchanted Peter. Not many people catch his attention. He’s always been a bit of a loner. I’m glad he has friends like her now.” MJ at that moment punched Peter in the shoulder. Peter just laughed. MJ didn’t seem all that upset. He looked back to Ty.

“I’m glad, too. Most of MJ’s friends left the state for college. I never figured she’d have trouble making new ones, but I’m glad she’s—Steve? Is everything ok?”

It must have been a hallucination. For a moment, Steve could _swear_ he had seen—well, that didn’t matter. He was dead. It wasn’t him. It was someone who looked _similar_ , a passing face in the crowd with one too many shared features. But Steve knew he must have gone pale at the sight.

“I—yeah—fine—I just thought I saw—you know what, why don’t we go and join them? It looks like they’re not moving,” Steve said.

“Typical MJ—she’s sticks by food like a magnet,” Ty said with a laugh. They started moving forward towards the refreshment table right before all hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

 

There was _something_ wrong. Peter didn’t know what, but he knew that it was _something_. It had been plaguing him _all night_. He had thought, after Ty Watson was introduced and revealed to be Pops’ old boyfriend, that _that_ had been the cause of his unknown anxiety. But the other two men interacted with smiles on their faces, and Peter’s weird sixth sense was still on fire, and growing worse with every passing minute. He felt a dull pain as MJ’s fist collided with his upper arm.

“Hey!” she said. “Are you even listening to me anymore?” It was the utterly indignant expression on her face that made Peter laugh. MJ just rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” Peter apologized. “I just—I’ve got this bad feeling I can’t shake.”

“What kind of a bad feeling?” MJ asked, curious.

“Dunno. Just…Something in my gut,” Peter said. It was growing ever more agitating, burning him up from the inside. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if he started sweating.

“And what does your gut tell you to do?” MJ asked.

“It’s telling me to—“ Peter started to say, but then there was clarity. Time slowed down. It was like the tension of a bow string had been released, and the arrow was allowed to let fly. He heard the trigger being pulled before anything else, could see the bullet in mid-air. He knew who the target was, and it wasn’t him. He tackled his father to the ground. Time sped back up.

“What—“ Dad asked, shocked, as suddenly Peter was on top of him and everyone in the room was screaming, running for the exits. Peter was just glad that he’d managed to get to his dad in time. “Peter—what—oh.”

 

That was when they both noticed the red pooling on Tony Stark’s chest.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t taken his break with her today. It had not escaped Natasha’s notice.

 

He had brought home a dog. That would have been _impossible_ not to notice.

 

He’d brought home the dog, and the kids met the dog, and the kids fell in love with this mangy animal Clint had brought home. They’d given it a bath together, and Natasha had walked in on her husband, soaked to the bone, standing in the bathroom with two sudsy kids and a dog giving a good shake. Clint had only given her a tiny smile that said, “Please?” The kids had been less subtle. The room had rung with, “Mommy _please_ can we keep Lucky? Please please please!” Sneaky bastard. But she couldn’t fault him for it. She wouldn’t have cared about the dog anyway. Anything to keep him happy right now.

 

She could feel him drifting from her. She knew that the news about the Winter Soldier had deeply affected him, but she did not know how to fix that. No matter how many reassurances she made, she knew, he would not listen. Not inwardly. Doubt was a weed, and its roots were nearly impossible to dig out. Their current situation was in no way helping. She watched Clint and Will run around the house, chasing the dog with a blow dryer. Ana sat on Natasha’s lap. She french braided her daughter’s hair. It was one of her favorite things to do. There was nothing more relaxing than such casual, deep companionship. And her daughter’s hair, brilliant and red like her own, felt like silk in her hands.

“Mommy?” Ana asked, turning to look up at her with those big, brown eyes of hers. Clint’s eyes.

“Hmm?” Natasha asked.

“Stay _still_ ,” Clint complained to the dog as they blew past. The dog was getting water everywhere. Natasha didn’t mind. She knew Clint would clean it up later, and Will was giggling hysterically. The dog was having fun too. It probably deserved a little fun.

“We _can_ keep Lucky, right?” Ana asked in a small voice.

“I already said yes, Ana,” Natasha said. Ana’s face got determined.

“Then no take backs, ok?” she insisted. Natasha chuckled a little at that.

“No take backs,” she agreed. Ana turned back around so Natasha could finish her hair.

No take backs. That was what Clint was afraid of, she knew. Not for the dog, but for her presence. For their life. He was afraid everything was changing, Natasha could sense that easily enough. Nothing had changed for her. Nothing. But she could feel, in the pit of her stomach (or perhaps somewhere else, not quite her stomach) that things _were_ changing, whether she willed them to or not. Her little oasis was about to be disturbed, in one way or another.

Natasha just wasn’t sure which disturbance would be better than another.

Natasha’s cell rang. The caller ID showed it was Steve. Oh, perhaps it was another call to assemble. She put the phone back in her pocket and finished her daughter’s braid, tying it off at the end with a stretchy black band. She kissed the top of her head.

“All finished,” Natasha said.

“Yay!” Ana said. She turned on her mother’s lap again and gave her a hug. “Thanks, Mommy!” She scampered off her lap quickly, running to join her brother and Clint. Natasha pulled out her cellphone with reluctance. She couldn’t stay in this lovely domestic scene forever. Real life always interrupted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a scene in here with Kate Bishop and Clint Barton that is largely taken directly from Young Avengers Presents #6, just so you all know. The dialogue in the majority in that scene is not mine.
> 
> An additional note on the Russian names: I read a fic which explained very carefully the diminutive structure of Russian names, that Natalia and Yakov are formal versions, Natasha and Yasha friendly ones, and Natashenka and Yashenka for lovers. I am not certain how accurate this is and cannot for the life of me remember what (very good) fic this was, but this is the structure I have gone with, which gives the second scene certain significance that is lost without an understanding of the names.

No matter how many times it happened, Tony Stark would never quite get used to getting shot. His shoulder throbbed despite the pain medication coursing through his system. He felt exhausted from the blood loss and older and creakier than ever. His husband, his beautiful, perfect, totally-not-aging husband, sat beside his hospital bed, holding his hand.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tony insisted. “You should go, Steve. We have to find this guy. He might be coming after _you_ next.”

“I tracked him as far as I could—Natasha’s on his trail now. If he’d wanted me, he could have had me. He’s—he’s got some other agenda,” Steve said. His face was a blank slate, distant. The hand squeezing Tony’s was a little overly firm.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tony said, bringing Steve’s hand up to his lips and planting a little kiss there. Steve looked guilty all of a sudden and the grip relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“Nothing I can’t handle, big guy,” Tony reassured him. Steve nodded. His expression got distant again, his eyes unfocused. That was odd. Steve was rarely distant. After an accident, Steve was typically all but on top of him, his focus and attention indivisible from Tony. Not that Tony was upset about the change—his mother henning could get a bit suffocating sometimes—but it wasn’t natural. “What about you? Are _you_ ok?” Steve looked at him in mild surprise. He blinked slowly a couple of times.

“Me? Fine. I’m—I’m fine, Tony, you’re the who’s been shot,” Steve said.

“Which is just another Tuesday for us,” Tony pointed out. “I’ll be up and out of here as soon as they’ve cleared me. Which I hope is soon because this place smells like antiseptic and rotten oranges.” Tony wrinkled his nose. He hated hospitals. He hated the bright lights and the cold hands and the cool, unnervingly professional doctors. He hated the sound of coughing and beeping and machines pumping air. Doctors had done some pretty amazing things for him, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that the hospital had an atmosphere of death surrounding it. Steve smiled gently, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not _that_ bad. It does smell a bit like citrus, but I don’t know about _rotten_ citrus,” Steve said. He wasn’t looking at Tony. He was looking out the window, into the skyline of New York City. The hospital had a terrible view.

“Ok, if it’s not me, what is it, Steve?” Tony asked. Steve looked at him, his impassive expression crumbling. Tony knew that face, though he hadn’t seen it since all the drama a few months back. It was Steve’s barely-holding-it-together face, a face very rarely seen on Captain America.

“I followed the assailant to the rooftops,” Steve said. “And I—Tony, I really…I feel like I’m going insane, like I must have hallucinated, or it must not have been _him_ but it _was_. It was _him_. I know that face, I know that—that everything, the way he moves, the way he thinks—and I know, the way he tried to evade me, I _know_ that style and I—it wasn’t just his _face_. If it was just his face maybe I could be wrong but—Tony I don’t know how…how…” Steve’s breathing had gotten rapid, and his voice sounded panicked. Tony just gripped his hand tighter, too sore to do anything else.

“Steve, babe, you’re talking nonsense, I don’t know what you’re talking about—who was it?” Tony asked.

“It—it _couldn’t_ be, but it was, and—and someone’s playing a really, _really_ sick joke to get to me, and, fuck, Tony, it’s working,” Steve said, his eyes shining with pain and confusion. “It was _Bucky_ up on that rooftop. I didn’t know—I hadn’t seen a face when I chased him up there—and then I found a crowbar and I threw it at his head, and he just turned around and caught it in midair, and—Tony, I’m sorry, I froze. I couldn’t do anything but just—I said his name, and he just looked at me, and…he still had that gun, I don’t know why he didn’t just shoot me in the head. He asked me—he asked me ‘Who the hell is Bucky’? But then he just—he threw the crowbar back at me and ran off and I—I didn’t follow him, I _couldn’t_ follow him—I—I’m _sorry_ , Tony, I just—” Steve’s free hand covered his face as his voice broke.

Tony had no idea what to say. All helpful thoughts had fled his mind. He knew Steve was in pain, great pain, and very confused and probably deeply, deeply angry underneath it all, but he had no words to patch it up. _Was_ Steve hallucinating? Had he misread the signs? Did he see his old friend’s face on someone similar? Or had some sick fuck made a Life Model Decoy of his dead best friend just to screw with him?

“Jesus, Steve, what are you apologizing for? You just chased a doppelganger of your deceased best friend halfway across the city—don’t _apologize_ ,” Tony said. He wished he could wrap his arms around his husband, but he knew moving his shoulder would be incredibly painful and Steve would only push him back anyway.

“I don’t want to think about this, Tony,” Steve said, his voice hoarse and hollow. “I don’t—I don’t want to think about what if’s or what this means or—“

“Then don’t,” Tony said. Tony was very good at band-aid solutions. Band-aid solutions were his specialty. Unfortunate that band-aids always stung like hell when they came off. “We can go home as soon as they clear me and watch horrible, mind-numbing reality television and you can let Natasha take this one. You don’t always have to take the lead, Steve.” Steve just sighed.

“Ok.”

“I’ll even let you put on Disney movies,” Tony said.

“You love Disney movies as much as I do,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

“Shush. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Hey Dad, I’m back,” Peter said, popping in the doorway, a white paper bag in his hands.

“Oh good, I thought you got lost on the way to the bathroom and would never find your way home again. Where did you go?” Tony asked. Peter just grinned and handed him the bag.

“There’s a 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts on Chambers Street,” he said.

“You got me donuts?” Tony asked, touched. He looked inside the bag and plucked out a jelly donut.

“I mean, I also got _me_ donuts, which I ate on the way here, and I got Pops a boston creme—should be in there…” Peter said. “When can we break you out of this joint?” Tony rooted through the bag and found the boston creme, which he handed to Steve. He had a faint smile on his face—though if Tony had to guess, he’d say it was from Peter’s thoughtfulness rather than the donut itself.

“Soon, hopefully,” Tony said. He took a big bite of the jelly donut. _Heaven_. He swallowed. “You don’t have to wait here, Peter. You can go home and get some sleep, ok?”

“Normally I would argue but I’m _beat_ ,” Peter admitted. He _did_ look pretty beat. There were circles under his eyes—had those been there earlier? If so, Tony hadn’t noticed. He took the two steps to Tony’s bedside, gave him a quick hug (mindful of the shoulder). “G’night Dad, night Pops. I’m glad—I’m glad everything’s ok.”

“Thanks to you, Peter,” Tony pointed out. Peter just gave a tiny, sheepish smile before exiting the room once more. Tony looked to Steve. Steve gave him a small, strained smile.

“It’s a really good donut,” he said. That was the last thing either of them said for another hour, when the doctor announced Tony could go ahead and recuperate at home. They made their weary way back to Brooklyn, and then back into their room. Tony turned on _Wall-E_ (his favorite, though he would never admit to having a favorite because _Tony Stark_ did not like Disney movies, of all things) and left it running, despite knowing that he’d be out like a light in ten minutes. Steve, he knew, would be up. Steve, he worried, wouldn’t sleep a wink.

 

* * *

 

 

Dark. Cold. Drafty. Well, this was not an unfamiliar scenario. Natasha stood in the middle of the empty, abandoned warehouse. She thought, wryly, that there were a rather lot of those in this part of the city. They were beginning to (beginning to? Did, had, would always) present a safety hazard.The dark figure stood only feet from her, still dressed in black slacks and a dress shirt. She had to admire the fact that he’d made it this far in dress shoes.

<<Giving up, Yakov?>> Natasha asked in Russian.

<<Natashenka?>> he asked, and a shiver went down her spine and her breath caught in her throat as the wind picked up. It had been a long, long time since she had heard that voice. She had not thought she would hear it again. She approached slowly, step by step, her right hand never leaving the gun on her hip. Love and loyalty meant little to assassins with orders.

<<It’s not like you, giving up,>> Natasha spoke.

<<My God, it _is_ you, >> Yasha breathed. He took a step forward, and Natasha stopped. He moved out of the shadow and into the strip of moonlight shining in from a broken window. His hair was long, that was different. His expression was one of astonishment, disbelief, and…hope? Natasha thought it might be hope, which made her grip her gun only harder. He was showing too much emotion—this was probably a trap.

<<Black Widow in the flesh, Yakov,>> Natasha agreed. She was unsure of his motivations. She decided to let him show her his cards—or at least, the cards he wanted her to see, before acting.

<<They said you were dead,>> Yasha said. His voice was hoarse. <<After Budapest—that explosion—>>

<<My partner and I got out _just_ fine, >> Natasha said. <<You of all people should know better than to trust an employer. Who _are_ you working for these days, Yakov? >> Yasha grimaced, and Natasha’s heart skipped. He didn’t like who he was working for. That much was obvious. His loyalty, then, must have little to do with programming. They had something on him—a chip in his brain that would explode, or a poison antidote he needed to take to stay alive; hell, even a GPS locator in an unknown location on his body would pose a major problem. They were popular tactics, ensuring loyalty in even the least moral of people.

 _No_ , Natasha thought to herself, _don’t leap to conclusions_. It was a struggle to remember that every movement he made, every expression, every word, was carefully calculated. Whether he was being honest or not she could never know for certain, no matter _how_ well she thought she understood him. She understood a Yasha from long, long ago, not this man standing before her, no more than he understood _her_. And he had always been a skilled manipulator.

<<I cannot tell you. I’m sure you understand,>> Yasha said. He sounded apologetic.

<<And I cannot let you go, Yasha. You nearly killed a friend of mine, tonight. You very nearly killed his son earlier. Tell me, what does your employer have against Steven Grant Rogers?>> Natasha asked.

<<What makes you think he has anything against Captain America?>> Yasha asked flippantly, but he rolled his eyes as he did so.

They were listening, then, probably always listening to him. He had a bug of some sort on his person, and either he could not destroy it or had no desire to do so at the present moment. He could not tell her outright that her assumption was correct, but if she _guessed_ correctly…

<<Seems to me someone likes games. Someone wants a _show_. Someone wants to see him bleed, >> Natasha said. <<Doctor Faustus must surely be humiliated from their last encounter—it would make sense that he would want to see Captain America stripped to the bone before his demise.>>

<<Faustus? That incompetent neo-nazi? His policies are watered down, they hold little of the grand designs from the 40s. You think he has the capacity to create so great a scheme as this one?>> Yasha asked. _Go older_. It was like he was shouting it at her.

<<Faustus has done much in the past. It would not surprise me. This hardly seems like the work of a mastermind.>> Natasha took a few steps forward. They were close now, so close that she could hear his gentle breathing, could feel his breath on her skin, could see it forming clouds in the frozen air. She put her left hand on his forearm. <<Come with me, Yasha.>> If they were listening, they would expect this of her, after all. <<Whatever they have done to you, we can reverse it. I promise you that. My employers have foiled yours—whomever that may be—a thousand times over. This will not last. You will _not_ succeed. Come with me now, Yashenka. >>

For one, heart stopping moment, she thought that he would agree, that he would follow her like a meek little lamb and spill everything he knew. But of course, he wasn’t that stupid. He bent his head down to whisper in her ear.

<<Are you sure that’s my name? Because I’m not,>> he said. That was when Natasha jerked his arm forward and aimed a kick between his legs—but he twisted out of her grasp before she could manage that, swiping a low kick out at her legs. She jumped to avoid it, then jumped up again, grabbing his neck with her thighs and wrenching him to the ground. He laughed as he got up, not bothered a bit by the slam into the pavement. Natasha forgot how much she disliked (or was it liked?) fighting fellow super soldiers. He stood a few feet away. Natasha remained in fighting stance, but she did not move, waiting for him.

<<Always a pleasure working with you, Widow,>> Yasha said, bowing to her with arms extended. <<I need to cut short our little playdate, however. I do not ever fail at my job. And I will not fail at this one.>> He grabbed onto a chain anchored into the ground and gave the rusty metal a good whack with his mechanical arm. The metal snapped and Yasha was yanked upwards. Natasha jumped out of the way as a large piece of equipment came crashing to the floor. Yasha let go of the chain and dropped onto the metal rafters by the high ceiling, running into the darkness and out of sight.

“Do Svidaniya!” he called out, his words echoing in the warehouse long after he had left. Natasha watched the rafters still.

For one reason or another, he was going to finish the job he had started. It was a warning. _Be prepared, Natasha_. _I’m coming back and I’m not playing nice next time._

* * *

Steve Rogers never cried. There was a level of strength people expected of him that has nothing to do with physicality, so Steve Rogers never cried. He had four exceptions to this rule to date: one, when his mother died, two, when Bucky died, three, when his mental breakdown over being transported into the future reached its peak, and four, when Tony had handed him divorce papers. He had many other close calls, certainly (he may have teared up and given a few manly sniffles after the opening of _Up_ ), but these were the four times when Steve had really let himself cry. Yet Steve was coming close to number five, and all he was doing was watching _Wall-E_ for the eight billionth time.

All right, that wasn’t the real _reason_ , although the uplifting story was certainly moving. Steve didn’t want to admit the real reason, didn’t want to _think_ about the real reason. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was Bucky slipping through his fingers and falling from that train. Whenever he let his mind wander, it was only ever back to his best friend’s expression as he fell to his death. Steve swallowed and snuggled closer into Tony’s side as the movie’s credits rolled.

Tony needed his sleep. Tony had been _shot_ earlier. Tony needed his sleep. But he’d never been more tempted to wake his husband. Instead he just clung more tightly, careful not to cling _too_ tightly as was all too easy for him to do. He buried his face in the back of Tony’s neck and just breathed slowly. He bit his tongue as tears welled in his eyes. _Bucky_. If there was one person he’d failed above all, it had been him. Steve would gladly trade his life for exactly four people—his mother, Tony, Peter, and Bucky. And he had wished, in agony, those days after his death, that he could.

Peggy had shown him the light. Let him have the _dignity_ of his death, let his death be honorable and _his_ choice, not Steve’s error. It helped. It let Steve clear his head enough to catch the Red Skull and send him to the darkest corner of hell conceivable. But there was still a tiny part of Steve’s mind that could not help but remind him that, no matter if it had been Bucky’s _choice_ to follow him, Bucky’s _choice_ to join him on those hare-brained missions he undertook with the Howling Commandos, it had also been Bucky’s choice to _trust_ Steve, and Steve had obviously not _deserved_ that trust.

Steve felt tears slip down his nose, splashing onto Tony’s neck.

What if he _wasn’t_ a life model decoy? What if he _wasn’t_ a ‘doppleganger’? What if he was _Bucky_? What if it was Bucky out there? What if Steve’s negligence had left him in the very ice Steve would later freeze in? What if _Bucky was alive_? What then? Steve didn’t know, didn’t want to know, couldn’t _think straight_.

And suddenly there were arms around him, and, oh, he’d woken Tony. Tony, who cradled Steve’s head into his chest, his chest where the soothing blue light of the arc reactor washed over Steve’s vision. Tony was speaking to him, but Steve knew it didn’t matter what he was saying. It was comforting nonsense, and he was just grateful for the sound of Tony’s voice. He shouldn’t be selfish, he should tell Tony to go back to bed, to sleep, to rest, but every time Steve opened his mouth, nothing but sobs came out.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter had not had a pleasant weekend. That was not news to anyone who knew him. Nor, really, was it news to anyone who read Page Six. _Tony Stark Shot at Son’s Photography Gallery_ had actually _headlined_ a lot of newspapers, let alone been relegated to the celebrity gossip pages. Peter had grabbed a copy of the _Bugle_ , curious as to what the journalists had to say about the incident. Of course, they knew less than nothing and mostly just made a big deal about witnesses being frightened. They did, however, make a big deal about how _heroic_ Peter Stark had been.

_“Witnesses report seeing Peter Stark, Tony Stark’s not-so-secret biological son, putting pressure on the wound and covering it with his suit jacket. ‘He really took command of the situation,’ one eye-witness reported. ‘He designated me to call an ambulance and made sure to ask his dad the right questions—I’m an EMT, it was obvious he was trying to establish his level of consciousness and keep it there; he’s probably had some basic training in first aid. Unsurprising, considering what his parents do for a living.’_

_Stark Sr., we are happy to report, suffered no major injury from the bullet wound, but he still must be glad he has such a cool-headed son to help. ‘The blood loss could have been much more substantial if there was no one putting pressure on it,’ one of Stark’s nurses confessed to us. ‘Probably not life-threatening, but he certainly wouldn’t feel as good as he does now.’_

_So Stark Jr. appears to be somewhat of a hero in his own right—but who could possibly be surprised with two of them for parents? As for the mysterious shooter, this Daily Bugle reporter has been reliably informed that ‘SHIELD is handling it’, and though no other information was forthcoming, witnesses at the party did see Steve Rogers running after the assailant—after establishing that the bullet that hit his husband had apparently hit no vital organs. If you can keep Captain America from his job, it really must be love, Mr. Stark.”_

Peter couldn’t help but raise both of his eyebrows at the ridiculous article. There were so many bizarre things about it that he didn’t even care to count. But hilariously, and _frustratingly_ , while Peter Stark might be lauded by the _Bugle_ , the darling of NYC, his alter ego was being ripped to pieces.

 

_“‘How much training has this guy even had?’ our witness demanded, referring to the bank robbery Spider-Man foiled a few weeks previous. ‘He’s cracking jokes while there’s still one of the robbers free—some superhero! That guy could’ve shot up the place while he was busy with all that self-congratulating!’ It’s true that we here at the Bugle have long wondered exactly what the Avengers were thinking when they put the masked vigilante on their superhero team._

_‘He’s no super hero, I can tell you that,’ said another disgruntled witness. While Spider-Man stopped thieves holding up his store, he caused hundreds of dollars in damage to the store, more than was in the register the thieves were stealing from. ‘He damn near got me shot! Captain America wouldn’t’ve blundered it that badly, I’ll say that!’”_

 

Peter winced. Ouch. It was true, he wasn’t, uh, as _efficient_ as Pops. His, er, _technique_ might sometimes leave a little something to be desired, but he always got the job done. The bank robbery? Everything turned out fine! That held up convenience store? Ok, yeah, the place got a little messy, but at no point had that cashier been in danger of being shot—Peter had made _sure_ of it. He felt a bit of anger welling in his chest. If he _hadn’t_ been there, the guy very well _might_ have been shot.

Maybe he wouldn’t have, though, Peter thought as the anger left him, leaving only doubt. Maybe he really _had_ blundered that one. And if he’d blundered that one, how many more had he screwed up that he didn’t even realize? Peter wadded up the paper and threw it in the nearest trash can, continuing along the sidewalk to school. He never really figured the papers would speak out against Spider-Man once he became an Avenger. Sure, they said a few nasty things when he was just a vigilante, but that was to be expected. Peter _never_ saw any of the Avengers take any flack (well, except for Dad, but that was never because of his Avengers activities and didn’t happen often, anyway) in the papers or the news. If they had any bad press, it was because the entire _team_ was under scrutiny, not just one member. Peter couldn’t help but feel a little bit personally attacked.

Peter strolled onto campus, trying to remember what classes he even _had_ on Monday. He hoped he wasn’t late to anything. He hoped he’d done all his homework. He probably hadn’t. What with the rogue assassin, training the unwilling Young Avengers ( _was_ he training them? Was he leading them? Was he doing neither of those things? Peter couldn’t tell anymore), doing his usual Avengers work, and trying to be a good boyfriend, the school work had begun to slide.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Surely, he could make up whatever work he had missed. He would still do well on the tests. He was a _genius_. He could figure it out. Probably. Most likely. Except, college was _hard_.

No, he’d be fine. He just had to get a little more school work time in, that was all. He could fit it in…uh. After working with the Young Avengers. No, wait, he had Avengers related stuff to do after that—working with the police, training, that sort of thing. After THAT then. So. When he needed to be sleeping.

Whatever. Dad never slept. He didn’t need to, either.

 

* * *

 

 

      Tony felt _old_. Tony felt it in his bones. Tony felt it in his back, particularly, and in his hips, and right now in his _shoulder_. He felt it in his hands and his joints, which were beginning to feel arthritic with his age. He felt it in the way the corners of his eyes crinkled whenever he smiled, the way that lines had permanently formed on his forehead. Being up and active and Iron Man helped curtail those feelings of being _old_ , but at moments like this, stuck at home with an aching shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel his age acutely.

“I made hamburgers,” Steve proclaimed proudly as he re-entered the living room, two plates in his hands. He handed one to Tony. Tony smiled and took it from him. He watched Steve as took his seat next to him on the couch, reclining contentedly and watching old cartoons on Cartoon Network because Steve was funny like that and Tony didn’t mind. Or, he was watching them until he realized Tony was staring, and then he stared back with an amused little grin. “Something on your mind?”

“No,” Tony said. “No. Just.” Tony was going to bring it up again. He was going to breach the subject. He was going to remind Steve that Tony was getting _old_ and Steve _wasn’t_ , to try to break through that thick skull of his now so he wouldn’t hurt so much later—

But no. Tony stopped himself. He’d held Steve in his arms while he shook and cried last night and never said a word except _Bucky_. Tony felt a lump in his throat. Now was not the time. No matter how Tony was feeling, now _was not_ the time. So he smiled instead, leaned in, and kissed his husband. He felt Steve smile into their kiss, and Tony was glad. Tony was glad he could still smile, despite everything that was happening. When they broke apart, he said only,

“Just blinded by your beauty.” Steve threw a pillow at his face for that cheesy line. Tony just chuckled and laid back, enjoying the cartoon and his hamburger.

Well, he tried to anyway.

“Oh, I forgot drinks,” Steve said. He got up and just vaulted over the back of the couch with one arm. It was something Peter would do. “What do you want, Tony?”

“Uh, just a coke, thanks,” Tony said. Steve returned, coming back the same way he left and landing on the couch with a thud that shook the whole thing. He handed Tony his pop. Tony had to take it with his left hand. His right hurt too much to move.

His mind kept wandering to his sore back and his sore shoulder and his aching joints. He kept thinking that, at this moment, piloting the Iron Man would be excruciating. He wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. And who knew when he’d be fully healed? _Would_ he ever be fully healed? Injuries at his age took longer and longer and longer to heal. He was getting to the point where even _old_ injuries were acting up, going stiff at random points and becoming painful to move. His reaction time was getting to be more and more sluggish. Eventually, he wouldn’t be able to pilot the Iron Man at all. He was in top shape for his age, but more and more his age was feeling like a prison, slowly cutting him down from everything he was capable of. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, were Steve right there with him. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were both a bit creaky and getting on with age. It wouldn’t be so bad if they could retire together, secure in the knowledge that another team was preparing to take over, like the Young Avengers their son led.  But that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t the case at all. There was no one to replace them just yet—the Young Avengers were nowhere _near_ ready if half of what Tony heard from water cooler gossip was true—and Steve, perfect Steve, was in stasis. So for now, age felt less like a graceful, natural slope into a pleasant retirement and more like being dragged towards death as he dug his fingernails into the dirt, clawing his way out in desperation.

No, now was definitely not the time for this conversation.

 

* * *

 

 

“Get your shit _together_ , Stark,” Bradley growled as yet another bot—which looked like little roombas with spindly legs and mostly just swiped and scratched and stung—in the simulation cut his webbing, sending him tumbling to the ground and leaving his team blind and wanting for an eye in the sky. The little demons were _everywhere_ and Peter, even with his spidey sense, just could not keep track of them. Partly, it was because they were little shits and just everywhere, but partly it was because Peter was already feeling sluggish. He’d only had time to eat that morning and hadn’t had anything since that bagel, other than two more cups of coffee. He was running on caffeine and adrenaline and wow was this what it felt like to be his dad because it was _shitty_.

“Get _your_ shit together, Bradley,” Peter snapped. “Maybe if somebody had my back up there I wouldn’t keep getting cut down.”

“The fuck am _I_ supposed to do about that? I don’t have fucking wings, Stark,” Eli shouted back, punching through a bot with his bare hand. “Go yell at _Kate_.”

“Kate, I could use some back-up up top,” Peter called out to her.

“Little _busy_ ,” Kate called back. She was, indeed. She was practically swarmed; being good at hand to hand was, in this instance, a bit more useful unless you could keep out of the way of the bots. Kate wasn’t half bad at hand to hand, but the bow—uh, used in conjunction with arrows, not as a bat, as it was now—was her strength. Tommy ran circles around her, doing his best to sweep up the bots as he went, but he couldn’t get to all of them. Peter webbed a few, jumping out of the way of rogue bots as he did so. He smacked a few out of the way as he got to her, going back to back with her.

“We need eyes up top,” Peter said, “but I can’t stay up there for long before those bots cut me down.” Peter webbed a few more bots as they came. “If I drop you on top of that rafter do you think you can handle it?”

“Surveillance isn’t going to matter if we can’t stem the flow of these guys, they’ll be _everywhere_. They _are_ everywhere. We need to find the leader—they’re a hive mind aren’t they?” Kate said.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Peter said cautiously.

“GOT ANY BRIGHT IDEAS STARK?” Billy—Wiccan—called out. He was using his magic to put a shield around their new holographic hostages, but it wouldn’t hold forever, not with the bots attacking it as viciously as they were. The truth was, Peter _had_ no bright ideas. All he could think about was the growling in his stomach, and the knowledge that after this he had to sit through an Avengers meeting and he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to sit upright and keep his eyes open. Would he have time for a bite to eat in between this and the meeting? Probably not, not if he also wanted to shower and be presentable. But his stomach growled insistently.

“Make a _call_ , Stark!” Kate demanded, whacking away yet another bot with her bow and grimacing as she did so. Left and right went her bow—Peter’s spidey sense went off, but he was too slow in moving; she whacked him in the head with the back of her bow as her arm swung backwards. Her eyes widened. “Peter!”

His head was _throbbing_ now, and his stomach was growling, and his limbs were heavy and all he really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep, but instead he drew himself up, feeling the trickle of blood just above his eyebrow.

“Patriot, Hulkling, Speed you keep as many bots off Wiccan as you can,” Peter ordered. “And uh, Kate, you and I are going to get Cassie into that compound—Cassie can you make yourself small enough to fit through the keyhole?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Cassie said.

“This is a waste of time!” Kate protested. “There won’t be anything _in_ there, that’s where they’re _coming_ from, do you think anyone would be stupid enough to keep their programming in their too? This isn’t _The Phantom Menace_ , Stark, the droids aren’t going to all fall down as soon as you take out the compound—“ But Kate was running next to him and Cassie anyway as they made their way to the other side of the simulation room, where the illusion of a metal compound was.

“But maybe we can stem the flow—Cassie as soon as you’re in, open the door for us,” Peter ordered.

“Are you _stupid_?” Kate demanded. “Peter—Peter _listen_ to me, that’s where they’re _coming_ from, if you open that door—“

Cassie shrunk down to keyhole size, and Peter picked her up. She wiggled through the hole. As soon as she was through, Kate grabbed Peter’s arm.

“—If you open that door an _army_ of them is going to come pouring out! We’ll be overwhelmed and we’ll _never_ find the queen bee!”

“Or they’re _not_ operating on a hive mind and they’re programmed through a remote device located _in here_ ,” Peter argued.

“No, we’ve _run_ this simulation before, and they were _hive mind_ bots,” Kate argued. That made Peter pause. Had they run a similar simulation to this? It was likely—they’d gone through quite a few simulations already. But it was too late. The call had already been made. The door opened and a squealing Cassie spilled out, bots swarming out from behind her. Cassie had already ‘died’ trying to get the door open.

“Fucking _great_ ,” Kate snarled as she and Peter were both quickly overwhelmed.

It didn’t take long before Hulkling, Patriot, and Speed were all overwhelmed as well, and then Wiccan’s shields collapsed. Sirens blared. The bots disappeared, and finally Peter could see Kate again, now that neither of them were covered in holographic robots. Her glare was steady, furious, and unyielding and Peter felt himself shrink internally under her power.

“Fantastic job, Stark,” She said, getting up. Peter just laid back on the cold, smooth concrete, staring up at the warehouse-like ceiling.

Fantastic job, indeed. Now where could he find a sandwich in this place?

 

* * *

 

 

 _Twang_. _Thud. Twang. Thud. Twang. Thud_.

Like her heartbeat. Rhythmic. Kate pulled back the bow string and let it loose. _Twang_. The arrow flew and hit the target. _Thud_. Over and over again. It would be soothing if her rage weren’t building with every hit.

 _Twang. Thud_.

This had been their decision. As a team. They had made this decision as a team, to go into S.H.I.E.L.D., and when Peter had been floated in over their heads as team captain she had tried to make it work. No matter how insulting it was to have Peter Stark, the guy who floated into Hawthorn almost halfway through senior year and goofed off and hung around with _Harry Osborn_ , of all people, leading a team that she and the others had worked hard to build. She had liked Peter ok. She figured, hey, he deserved a _chance_.

_Twang. Thud._

But he was absolute _crap_ at the job. He didn’t listen to anyone, he just did what _he_ thought was best. He didn’t play to their strengths and work around their weaknesses because he didn’t _know_ them. He didn’t let them in on his plans, he just acted and ordered, and no one ever knew what the hell was going on. He was _definitely_ no Captain America. He was a Stark through and through on this subject. And now she was in the backseat, relegated there _forever_ , all because some stupid boy had been floated in over her head.

 _Twang. Thud_.

What was even the _point_? Superheroing was _awesome_ , but they hadn’t actually _done_ anything since they’d done the legal thing and registered with the SHRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. What was the point? Kate could go home now, be an olympic archer. And fencer. And concert cellist. Kate could do whatever she wanted, _be_ whatever she wanted, and she didn’t have to take this bureaucratic _bullshit_.

_Twang. Thud._

“So, shall I affix a picture to the target, or are you happy keeping the face in your mind’s eye?”

 _Twang, thunk_.

Kate missed her mark, hitting the white edge of the target, startled by the interruption. She looked over to see Clint Barton, Hawkeye, watching her, an eyebrow raised. Kate hadn’t had much interaction with the Avenger, beyond him foisting Peter onto her team when she had been reliably informed that really _he_ was supposed to be their valiant trainer. Kate had never seen him up close before. Widow and Hawkeye never gave interviews. It was understood that they were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and that their secrecy and faces (faces bare to the world) was a bit more important than it was for Iron Man, who had willingly unmasked himself, or Captain America, who had been unmasked back in 2015. Widow and Hawkeye never _had_ masks to hide behind in the first place, so they simply stayed out of the spotlight. It was easy to let them do it, too—there were few who cared about a pair of skilled S.H.I.E.L.D. agents when there was an alien, a big green monster, a super soldier from the 40s, and a metal robot-looking thing wandering around. Now that she could see him up close, she realized he was just a very fit, middle-aged guy, maybe 50 or so, with eyes that appeared to see everything. His hair was blonde and messy, he had a white bandage across his nose from some recent injury, and tape all over his fingers from one thing or another. It was easy to see on his body what the price was of running around with super soldiers as a mere mortal.

“I—what?” Kate asked. Hawkeye nodded to the target. All of her arrows—save one—were clustered around the center bullseye, but she was running out of space. She would have to retrieve her arrows soon and start over. At that moment Kate was sure she would keep going until the target was ripped entirely to shreds, the middle useless and oozing destroyed old foam.

“Do you need a picture? Or are you happy imagining the target? Who was it—boyfriend? Girlfriend?” Clint asked. A small, amused smile played at the corner of his slips and Kate frowned. She was pissed off. She took another arrow out of her quiver and nocked it.

“It’s none of your business,” she said coolly. _Twang. Thud_.

“Hm,” Clint said. _Twang. Thud_. “Not bad aim. But you haven’t hit the same spot twice.” Kate relaxed her bow arm and raised an eyebrow at the older man.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re so talented girly-girl, why haven’t you made the _Robin Hood_ shot?” Barton asked. The Robin Hood shot—the infamous shot where Errol Flynn waltzed in and split an arrow in half, right down the middle, with another arrow—in one shot.

“Not even _you_ can make that shot— _nobody_ can make the Robin Hood shot. I don’t care _how_ good you are,” Kate retorted.

“Oh yeah? And why not?” Clint asked, grabbing a bowfrom the hooks on the back wall, and a single arrow from a quiver on the ground.

“Because it’s _impossible_ , ya doof, that’s why. Even the _Mythbusters_ couldn’t do it and there’s _five_ of them next to _one_ little old you,” Kate said as Clint nocked the arrow and came to stand by her.

“So glad to hear you’ve started to address me as one of your elders worthy of respect,” Clint said, drawing the bow.

“Was that disrespectful? I’m sorry, _mister_ doof.”

“Tell you what grasshopper,” Clint said, shutting one eye, squinting at the target, then opening it back up again, “I don’t mean to get all _life-coach_ on you but—you’re gonna _miss_ each and every shot you can’t be bothered to take. That’s not living life—that’s just being a _tourist_. Take _every_ shot, Kate, If it’s worth caring about, no matter how impossible you think it is, you _take the shot_.” Clint loosed the arrow. Kate couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp as his arrow split one of hers right down the middle. Screw _Mythbusters_ , hell, screw their _revisit_ —Clint split the shaft of that arrow clean down the middle. In one shot. He put the bow down, then looked Kate right in the eyes.

“You know the Avengers have always been about tradition, Kate—about unity, about family—about _legacy_. I know, because I’ve got to experience that first hand. I was one of the _first_ avengers that people didn’t believe in, doubted, and despised a little. Now it’s your turn. We’ll _be here_ for you kids. Go out, fight hard, screw up, save the world a few times. We have your back. Just keep taking the shots, okay?” Kate looked at her bow, then back at Hawkeye.

 _Keep taking the shots_. She didn’t know how he knew. She had no idea how he knew, but she guessed it didn’t matter. She just nodded resolutely.

“Yeah. Thank you, Hawkeye,” she said. He just gave her a curt nod, put the bow back on the hook, and walked out of the practice range.

 _Keep taking the shots_. Kate took a breath. She could do this. She could _do this_. She could work with Stark. If she couldn’t lead from the front, she could steer from the back. She just had to get him to get his head in the game. And in the mean time, maybe some practice was in order. If Hawkeye could make that shot? So could she. She raised her bow, nocked an arrow, and pulled back.

 _Twang. Thud_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Peter had trudged his way through the Avengers meeting as best he could. He’d managed to grab half a sandwich in the Triskelion cafeteria, which he ate _during_ the meeting, ignoring Pops’ frowny face. Pops could deal with Peter’s apparent rudeness—he was _starving_. After the meeting was over, he took the Spider-Man express back to his apartment with Harry. After that weekend, Pops had decided that it was ok for Peter to go back—the assassin had a clear shot at him and didn’t take it. There was no way of knowing who his next target would be, so there was no real reason for Peter not to go back to his apartment. Hell, if the shooter was after Pops or their whole family, Peter might be in _more_ danger if they were all under one roof than if Peter was elsewhere, looking out for himself. So he’d gone back.

Harry had been glad to see him. Harry had been…a little _too_ glad to see him. He had tried to entice Peter into getting drunk with him and hanging out, but Peter wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about that course of action considering what had happened the _last_ time he’d encountered a wasted Harry—and he didn’t want to think about what might have happened if Peter had been black-out too. He might be straight, but he wasn’t exactly a zero on the Kinsey scale, either (two. He was a two. He’d taken a quiz, and he was a two), and he might have a steady, beautiful, loving girlfriend, but if he was blackout drunk and horny fooling around with his best friend might suddenly not seem like the _terrible idea_ it was. So Peter had declined and Harry had pouted a little, but they’d ended up playing _Call of Duty_ for a while anyway, which in hindsight was a terrible decision because Peter really had _school work_ he should be doing, but honestly all this work was going to break him. He needed to shove fun in there somewhere, too. Harry, though, wanted to make fun a more regular thing, and Harry really wanted a _different_ kind of fun. He was buzzed when Peter arrived at the apartment, exhausted from the day and ready to make some ramen, study for physics, and go to bed.

“Peeeeete,” Harry said as he came in, which was how Peter knew Harry was buzzed. That, and the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Hey Harry,” Peter greeted him, shutting the door behind him. Harry enveloped him in a hug which Peter only returned with an awkward pat on the back. “Uh, hi. You uh—you pregaming for a party?”

“Nah,” Harry said, letting him go. He collapsed onto the sofa, putting the whiskey on the coffee table. “Just thought I’d make _Call of Duty_ a little more interesting. C’mon, take a seat, Petey.” Harry patted the spot next to him. “Let’s marathon this bitch.”

“I’d really love to, Harry, but I’ve got class in the morning and I’m really beat from today, I was so busy—“ Peter started, and Harry shut down instantly, his expression doing a 180 from buzzed and happy to dark and moody. That was Harry, these days. Maybe that was Harry, always. Peter’s stomach sunk.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. What the fuck were you out doing, anyway? That dumb blonde slut?” Peter was so shocked it took him a moment to speak.

“Wh—she is _not_ —don’t you fucking dare call her a slut. She’s not dumb, and she’s not a slut—the hell is wrong with you, man?” Peter demanded. Harry stood up he laughed, tapped his chest and opened his arms.

“Me? What’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with _you_ , Stark? You don’t even—you don’t even _see her_ for what she is. She’s not—she’s not going to stick with you, Pete. She’ll drop you the minute something better comes along,” Harry raved. Peter couldn’t believe his ears.

“Harry— _Christ_ , first of all, thanks for the vote of confidence, second, you don’t even _fucking_ know her! She’s smart and she’s sweet and caring and—“

“And _traitorous_. She’s going to turn on you, Peter. She doesn’t _deserve_ you,” Harry said, sounding horribly wounded, and suddenly Peter felt a horrific sinking feeling. He knew what this was about. It wasn’t about Gwen at all. It was about Harry. Of course it was about Harry.

“I’m happy with her, Harry,” Peter said firmly. “And I don’t care what you think; if anything I’m the one who doesn’t deserve her. She’s amazing.”

Harry was moving from out behind the couch now, and Peter felt himself take a step backward.

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Harry repeated. “And she’s just—she’s just _in the way_.”

“In the way of _what_ , Harry?” Peter asked, dreading the answer but knowing it already. This was the conversation Harry wanted to have. This was the conversation Harry _needed_ to have. So even though Peter was bone tired and his stomach was turning in knots, he would have it.

“ _Us_. She’s just in the way of us, Pete,” Harry said. He said it so _earnestly_. He really believed it. “And don’t tell me—don’t tell me you don’t feel anything.” Harry was taking more steps forward, and Peter was slowly backing up—until he hit the wall.

“Harry, _buddy_ , you’re my best friend. I love you _like a brother_ ,” Peter emphasized. He was trying to keep the level of awkward down as much as possible. He could play this off like he didn’t quite comprehend what Harry was getting at so maybe he could save a bit of dignity for later. “But we—I’ve got a girlfriend, Harry, and school, and other commitments—I can’t always be around to hang out and play _Call of Duty_ and—“

“That’s _not_ what I mean, and you _know_ it,” Harry said vehemently. “I’ll _make_ you know it.” And then suddenly Peter realized what a terrible idea it was, backing up, because now Harry had him pinned against the wall and his brain froze as Harry’s mouth descended to his, rough and searching and passionate and _so not_ what Peter wanted right now. He tried shoving him gently, then a bit more firmly, but nothing that Peter wouldn’t have been capable of pre-Spider-Man. Harry didn’t budge. Peter pushed some more, and he still didn’t, and Peter felt panic entering his brain just as Harry’s hand slipped below his waistband—

Ok, he might have used a little spider-strength in that last shove there, but Harry would live. Not even any broken ribs. Probably. Harry was a few feet away from him, wheezing, and all Peter could think was _good_. Peter himself was gasping for air. Peter picked his backpack up from the ground where he’d set it when he came in. He opened the door.

“Just because my parents are gay doesn’t mean _I’m_ gay, Harry. And even if I was gay, that wouldn’t mean I was interested, and I’m pretty _fucking_ sure you could tell I’m not interested,” Peter said, his heart still pounding. “Sober up. I’ll see you later.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

He took a few deep breaths. He’d have to call Gwen. He’d have to call Gwen and tell her what happened. She deserved to know, and he had to tell _someone_ and he couldn’t tell his parents because they’d never let Harry near him again, and Peter couldn’t let that happen. For all Harry was fucked up, he was Peter’s best friend. More importantly, Peter was _Harry’s_ best friend, and Harry was _fucked up_. He would only get worse if Peter couldn’t get a proper handle on this situation. Peter didn’t want to think what Harry would do without him—throw wild parties, get every STD in the book and die of alcohol poisoning or a drug overdose, probably. Or maybe he’d just shove himself out a window. Peter didn’t know, he didn’t _want_ to.

He thought up excuses as he walked out of their apartment building. Excuses to his parents were always hard to craft. Harry threw a party, Peter figured. Harry threw a loud party and Peter just wanted to sleep. That was acceptable. They’d believe that. And maybe he could steal some of whatever Pops had cooked for dinner.

Something uncurled inside him at that thought, and he realized his emotions over this situation might be difficult to get a lid on as he bit his lip and breathed in and out slowly. He just wanted to be home right now. He just wanted to go home.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to make any promises that I can't keep. I'm not going to give any excuses, either. You do get an apology for the wait--I'm sorry. But here's chapter six, two years (too) late.

Peter had always been an overachiever. He worked hard, and really with parents like his how could he do anything but? They were ridiculous overachievers, and for his whole life academically was the only way he could come even close to keeping up. Peter probably could have skipped several grades in school and ended up at MIT at fourteen, following in his dad’s footsteps, but his parents had wanted a ‘normal’ life for him, considering how not normal most of his life was, and for that Peter was honestly grateful. Because, as much of an overachiever as he was, he was still struggling to get by in college and he was nineteen.

Ok granted very little of that had anything to do with the actual material on the curriculum and more to do with the amount of work combined with the five zillion other things he had to deal with. He’d been told that college would be an exercise in time management, but Peter hadn’t realized just how much so until he was staring at his latest midterm, a solid fat purple ‘F’ (along with a scrawled ‘see me’) written at the top of the page.

Peter wondered if his professor was the sort to subscribe to the idea that colors other than red were less shocking and upsetting to the student or if she just really liked purple. Because if it was the first scenario Peter could assure her, the color had no affect on his shock and horror and guilt. Ironically, this ‘F’ was in Artificial Intelligence—a subject Peter knew he could run around his classmates in circles considering JARVIS was the most advanced AI in the world, and he’d grown up with him. Hell, DUM-E and U and the other bots outdid 90% of the AIs out there even today. Dad had figured out how to really get technology to think, to think for itself, to realize it had a self, to be self-aware. Frankly, if Peter didn’t have so much trust in all his father’s creations, he’d be a bit disturbed by it (as Pops so obviously was—hence no JARVIS installed in the walls at home). Of course, only a select few officials in the government even knew about JARVIS’ existence or degree of sentience but that didn’t matter—the point was, Peter should have aced this class with his eyes closed.

“Hey Bambi, what’s up with the sad face?” Peter looked up to see MJ taking the seat next to him. Photography was about to start, not that Peter was really paying much attention. He’d managed to get a halfway decent shot for the day’s photo, and that was it. Frankly, he was just grateful he’d managed to do that.

“Bambi?”

“Your eyes. They’re the biggest, brownest eyes I’ve ever seen,” MJ explained, getting out her notebook and pen. “So?” Peter sighed, fiddling with his own pen.

“I failed a midterm,” he said. MJ winced.

“Ouch. What in?”

“Artificial Intelligence,” he said. “And I really—I shouldn’t have, you know? I should have been fine in that class. I’m good at that class. But I didn’t study. I didn’t have time. And now I’ve got a meeting with the professor after this class.”

“Yikes. Good luck. But hey, don’t look so depressed about it. It’s one F in one class in one semester. You won’t remember this senior year,” MJ pointed out. If I make it to senior year, Peter thought glumly. Professor Varishnikov entered the classroom, effectively ending all conversation. The photography professor was not known for being easy or tolerant like so many teachers in the arts were. He wasn’t even good natured. He grumbled and growled and, while he wasn’t aggressive or nasty, he certainly wasn’t cheerful or pleasant either.

Towards the end of class—by which point Peter’s right leg was practically vibrating as he fidgeted, and his pen had taken on an erratic tapping—Varishnikov announced that they would be doing a group photography project. Instead of allowing them to choose their partners like most sane professors, Varishnikov grouped them by location in the classroom, in threes. Conveniently, MJ and Peter were paired together—along with Taylor, a girl neither of them had ever spoken to and who looked quite put-out about not being grouped with the four other friends she was sitting with. Peter couldn’t blame her.

“I love how Varishnikov has given us three minutes at the end of class to discuss this,” MJ said sarcastically. “We’ll have to meet outside class—when are you guys free?”

Scheduling for the project was a nightmare as it turned out. MJ’s journalism meant that her schedule was booked solid, Peter’s was equally booked—he told MJ he was in a science club, working on a robotics project, to account for large chunks of time he couldn’t explain away—and Taylor had a busy social calendar as she was trying to pledge into a sorority.

“We’re going to end up meeting at three A. M. in the Arts building,” Peter joked. MJ looked thoughtful. “That was a joke, MJ.”

Eventually they decided to meet up at 1:15 the next day, for fifteen minutes only, just to figure out their theme and what their plan was. That was fine with Peter. He took off as soon as the class was dismissed. He had to get all the way across campus to the science buildings. He had that meeting with his professor to get to. He hadn’t done his lab project for Electromagnetics, which was due tomorrow. He had to finish that, do his reading for string theory, then get his butt to the Triskelion for more practice with the Young Avengers, and then go pick up Gwen for their date that night. Peter just hoped he didn’t fall asleep halfway through dinner.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Tony? You ok?” Steve asked, offering him a hand. Tony wished he could ignore it and get up on his own, but honestly, he was at the point where he couldn’t. It had only been three weeks since Tony had been shot but, really, he had only been shot in the shoulder—he wanted to get back on the team as quickly as possible. Steve, however, had insisted on a full physical assessment, both medically and in the gym. After Tony had made a few lewd suggestions about what could be included in Steve’s physical assessment, he had eventually agreed; after all, Steve was team Captain. He had to go along with it. The doctors at SHIELD had reluctantly given him the all clear, with just a warning to be careful and take it easy as much as possible. Steve’s physical assessment, however, was not at all as fun as Tony had hoped it would be. Steve had wanted to go hand-to-hand sans armor—and it really wasn’t going well for Tony.

“Fine,” Tony said, then groaned as he stood with Steve’s assistance and put a hand on his back. “Fine ish.”

“I’m pushing you too hard, I’m sorry,” Steve apologized. “I should have known that your shoulder isn’t even close to fully healed yet—“

“It’s not my damn shoulder, Cap,” Tony said, moving to sit on one of the chairs that lined the edges of the room. Steve sat on a chair next to him, watching him closely with concern evident on all his features. “It’s—God, it’s my back, my hips, my abs, my everything.”

“You were doing fine Tony,” Steve said. “I just went a little too hard, that’s all.”

“These are the same trials you do with Clint and Natasha, Steve. Don’t tell me they do as poorly on assessment as I just did,” Tony said in a low voice. Steve looked defensive.

“You’ve never been held to the same standard, Tony, you’re an armored pilot, you’re not meant for hand-to-hand except in emergency,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m not hitting my usual standard, am I?” Tony asked. Steve looked away.

“You’re a little slower than usual,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And for how many assessments have I been continuously a little slower,” Tony asked dryly. Steve met his eyes again, expression urgent.

“I would never put you in the field if I thought you were going to endanger yourself or the team, Tony,” he said earnestly. Tony put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know that,” Tony said, sighing. “What I’m wondering is if I’ve finally hit the bottom rung.” Steve looked away again. Tony was silent for a moment.

“We knew this would happen, Tony,” Steve said, staring at his hands. “I can’t—I don’t think I can put you back in the field right now, no. But you—you just need to…heal up a bit.”

“Unless by ‘heal up’ you mean encounter the fountain of youth, I don’t think that’s going to help me much, Steve,” Tony said softly. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He hated this, but he knew he was going to have to make the decision for Steve. Steve would never make it. “I think—I think maybe it’s time we start thinking about putting somebody else in the suit.” Steve looked at him sharply.

“What?” he said. “No. No, Tony, absolutely not. Temporary leave, while you heal up. You are Iron Man. There isn’t—the suit and you are one, remember?” Tony’s heart swelled with love for Steve in that moment, but he stamped it down and put it away.

“I know. I know, Steve. But like you said—we knew this would happen one day,” Tony said.

“If you’re thinking about retiring—Tony, it doesn’t matter, I’m not putting anyone else in the suit,” Steve said stubbornly. “I can’t believe you’re even entertaining the idea. Who are you and what did you do to my husband who can’t stand being handed things let alone sharing?”

“Steve. When you died, after the war, they gave the suit to someone else for a while. There were other Captain Americas. You know that. Because Captain America was bigger than you, that’s what you’re always telling me, right? Well, maybe Iron Man’s gotten bigger than me, too,” Tony admitted, even if his gut twisted painfully as he did so.

“Ok, now I know you’re a skrull,” Steve said, staring. “When did you get all wise?”

“I guess the same time I got old,” Tony said painfully, and with that Steve drew him into a hug. “Ah—shoulder, Steve, shoulder—“

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve mumbled, easing up on his grip. “I just—you’re not old, Tony.”

“It’s a fact, not an insult, Steve,” Tony said. “I’m making my peace with it, coming to terms. Are you?” As Steve released him from the hug, the look he gave Tony was so aggrieved Tony suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything at all. Steve didn’t answer, he just reached into his duffel and handed Tony a water bottle.

“Temporary leave,” Steve said, his voice wavering. “Temporary, Iron Man. I’m going to—I have paperwork I—I’ll see you at home, Tony.” Tony watched Steve go, feeling sick.

Had he just quit the Avengers? Maybe.

Had Steve just refused to let him? Definitely.

None of this spelled good things. None of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“That was so awesome,” Kate practically whooped. Natasha looked up from her desk. The young girl entered the nearly-empty office with Clint. She had her bow and quiver slung around her back, over her purple sweatshirt. “Did you see the look on his face?” Clint just laughed.

“It was hard to miss,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a moron go quite so slack-jawed.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t start drooling,” Kate said, grinning.

“He probably did after we got out of sight,” Clint said. They walked through the office, and stopped once they reached Natasha’s desk. Clint smiled at her. His face was dirty, and he had a fresh cut across his cheek. Kate Bishop was similarly dirty, and a bruise was already blossoming on her chin. “Hey Tasha.” Natasha just arched an eyebrow.

“And what exactly have you been up to?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to that question.

“Ah, just took care of some common thugs out in Queens,” Clint said, still smiling.

“…Ok then,” Natasha said. “Doesn’t really sound like Avengers business.” Clint rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, which made Natasha suspicious. She narrowed her eyes.

“Well…no, not really. Friend of mine—Jake, you remember Jake?—was having a bit of trouble and I figured…well, maybe I ought to go help him out,” Clint said. He looked over at Kate. “Kate helped. You should probably be hitting the showers and heading home, kid.”

“Sure,” Kate agreed. “Range, tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” Clint said. Kate smiled and left the room. Clint looked back at Natasha, a bit apologetic. “Ok, so maybe we weren’t supposed to be in Queens, but, hey, we took care of it. It’s all good.”

“I am not bailing you out of jail if the cops catch you playing vigilante in your off hours,” Natasha said sternly. She logged out of her computer with a few brisk clicks.

“You won’t have to, I flash my Avengers ID and they usually let me do my thing,” Clint said.

“And Kate, can she just flash her Avengers ID too?” Natasha asked sweetly.

“Kid was only running the getaway car,” Clint mumbled. Natasha stood as the computer shut off. She grabbed some folders on her desk and evened them out before putting them away in their proper drawer.

“Is that why she was covered in soot and got socked in the jaw?” Natasha asked.

“There were…complications. She’s fine, I’m fine, nobody got arrested—all’s well that ends well,” Clint said. He frowned. “Tasha, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you pull this all the time but I don’t know why this time you decided to get a teenage girl involved,” Natasha said sternly, grabbing her purse.

“Teenage gi—Tasha, she’s training to be an Avenger she’s hardly your average teenage girl,” Clint replied, frowning. “She was going stir crazy. Coulson has Peter and their team just running drills and simulations over and over again. They all need a chance to stretch their hero-muscles and do something. I thought it was the perfect opportunity. She wasn’t supposed to get out of the car.” Natasha started leaving the office, and Clint met her step for step.

“You could have gotten the pair of you arrested,” Natasha pointed out. “Think that’s how that girl wants to spend her night? Stuck in a holding cell?”

“Actually, somehow I don’t think she’s entirely unfamiliar with the inside of a police department,” Clint said. Natasha just glared. He put his hands up. “Ok! Ok, I get the message, loud and clear, no playing the irresponsible uncle with kids that are not actually my nieces or nephews, it may result in lawsuits.” He put his hands down. They walked in silence for a few minutes.

“You have a cut on your cheek. We’ll have to clean it up when we get home but I don’t think it needs stitches,” Natasha said coolly. Clint’s hand on her elbow stopped her determined forward movement.

“Tasha,” Clint spoke softly. “Tasha, what did I do? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t go beating up anymore thugs in Queens if you don’t want me to.” Natasha felt some of her anger drain out of her. Anger? Since when was she even angry? Why was she even angry? Clint managed to get himself into one scrape or another every other weekend.

“It’s—no, it’s fine. You were helping a friend,” Natasha said. She felt suddenly embarrassed, like she shouldn’t have been angry to begin with. She wasn’t sure she could blame this on the whole pregnancy thing. Although, if she did, Clint would probably believe her.

“Tasha,” Clint said softly, bringing her close, his hand going to the small of her back.

“You know, I’m a pretty great driver,” Natasha said.

“I know,” Clint said, putting his lips to her ear.

“Don’t you remember that time in Kiev when I drove us while simultaneously taking out six assholes on motorcycles?” Natasha asked, wrapping her arms around Clint and spreading her hands on the broad expanse of his back.

“I do. Distinctly. Can’t forget that,” Clint said. He kissed her just behind her ear. “Kid was going stir crazy. That’s all, Tasha. If I’d actually thought I’d need a partner on the run, I would’ve asked you.”

“Next time you better,” Natasha threatened without any real force behind it. “I don’t want to hear you kicked it because you were dumb enough to hope a teenager could get your back out there.” Clint chuckled, the sound vibrating against her. It was comforting. Relaxing.

“I wouldn’t underestimate Kate, kid’s pretty fierce. But, point taken,” Clint said. He finally let her go, but Natasha wished that he hadn’t. She took his hand, and they walked out to the parking lot together. Natasha knew she was being ridiculous, knew that Clint would never replace her as a partner, but she was all too aware of Clint’s growing distance, no matter how tightly he held her hand. He was preparing for the worst, preparing for some sort of awful change. But Natasha didn’t want change. She didn’t ever want change. She liked things just the way they were. She just had to make Clint see that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Wiccan, on your left—your left, that’s your right, you—ugh,” Peter sighed in frustration as Wiccan got hit in the side by one of the robots. In this simulation, their stingers were ‘toxic injections’. You were ‘dead’ if you got stung. Anyone dead was out of the simulation, leaving the rest of them to finish up. With Wiccan gone, there were only three of them left—Patriot, Peter, and Kate.

“Too slow, Stark,” Wiccan griped, headed to the sidelines with a hand just under his ribs, wincing from the sting. Peter had once asked Fury why the hell their simulations hurt. He’d said it was ‘negative reinforcement’ so that they wouldn’t get themselves killed. At the moment, though, it just seemed to Peter like unnecessary cruelty. The more they failed, the more sore they were—and the more they all blamed Peter.

“There’s too many of them for us to take down,” Patriot said, fighting off three on his own. Peter tended to agree. There were about fifty of them, and the goal was to hit the ‘kill switch’ on the robots—a giant green button on the back that would turn them off—while still avoiding the stingers. Ranged fighters like Kate and Billy did ok, but the rest of them were a little more vulnerable, having to get up close and personal.

“All right, do we call it?” Peter asked, defeated. Coulson had given him a word that would shut the simulation down if they admitted defeat, rather than making them all get stung before it would shut off. Peter knew full well that Fury had not approved the change, and Peter was grateful to Coulson for small mercies.

“Wait,” Kate said. “Peter, Eli, I want you to lure as many of them as you can to the center of the room, and keep them off me.”

“That’s suicide!” Eli shouted. “They’ll be on us like bees on honey!” They hadn’t tried luring any of the things anywhere—they mainly tried to stay away from them. If you got mobbed, you were stung for certain.

“Your country will thank you for your grand sacrifice!” Kate shouted from where she ran, racing across ‘rooftops’ in the simulation.

“All right, Eli, let’s go,” Peter said. They were out of other options, and Peter didn’t know what Kate had planned, but he was going to trust her. He and Eli, who had been on opposite sides of the room, ran to the middle. Peter tried to taunt a few of the robots away from Kate, shooting the with web and yanking them forward. It seemed to work, and quickly he and Eli were surrounded by the things.

“Kate?” Eli yelped into the ear piece as a robot nearly stung him.

“Just HOLD position,” Kate shouted. Peter was dodging the robots as best he could, but then, he felt it, and yelped. One had gotten him, right in the foot.

“I’m out—” Peter started, but then, there was an arrow at his feet. It was blinking with a little blue light. One, two, three—and then, suddenly, all the robots stopped moving. Peter looked up at the scoreboard. Both he and Eli were listed as dead—but they had also won the simulation. Kate hopped down from the fake roof.

“You killed me!” Eli said, indignant and astonished.

“We won the simulation,” Kate said.

“But you killed me,” Eli said, affronted.

“That was Kate’s plan all along,” Peter said, piecing it together. “If we ran from the bots, the arrow wouldn’t have enough time to detonate. Half the robots would already be away from it, following us. We had to stand there and die to keep them from moving.”

“And then they could all be wiped out in one,” Kate said, plucking her simulation explosive arrow from the ground. Peter knew that, if that had been a real arrow, that third blink would have been an explosion.

“Is a suicide mission a victory?” Eli demanded.

“Technically, yes,” Coulson said, appearing at the door. “And we have to congratulate Kate for not ending the simulation when Peter called it. That would be a full defeat, with all of you dead. And the city, as well, or the world.”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made,” Peter said grudgingly. Kate had managed to find a way, a way that Peter hadn’t seen—or maybe hadn’t wanted to see. All the team dead didn’t really feel like a victory to him. And now, it certainly wasn’t a victory for him—Kate had led the team. Kate was doing what Peter had known she could do from day one—take this team places he never could. And that stung.

“Well,” Coulson said, “I’ll let the Director know that today’s mission was a success.” Peter wondered if the kind agent would also inform Fury that all of them had died but Kate.

“I’m done today,” Peter said suddenly. Without another word, Peter left the simulation room. He just couldn’t deal with this crap today. All he wanted was to go and take Gwen on a wonderful date and forget about his life.

On the way to the locker rooms, Peter was surprised to run into Pops, who was walking down the hall in casual clothes. Peter didn’t know why he was surprised. Pops did work there, after all, even if he pretty much only came into the actual office when he felt like it. Pops lit up when he spotted Peter, and Peter suppressed another wince.

“Peter!” he said, walking over as Peter stopped. The team stopped behind him, to Peter’s surprise. He hadn’t even realized they’d followed his lead in declaring practice over. Ha! One thing they could agree with him on. “Is this your team?” Peter mumbled through an unenthusiastic affirmation, and reluctantly introduced them all by name. Pops beamed even brighter.

“The Young Avengers, right? Word on the street is that’s the name,” Pops asked, looking at Peter but also the team expectantly. Peter could feel the awkwardness radiating off of everyone else.

“That’s not really—the team isn’t—we’re thinking about things other than ‘Avengers’,” Peter eventually fumbled out.

“Oh, right, yeah, of course,” Pops said, still smiling. “You want to do your own thing. I can understand that. Have you decided on another name yet?”

“Uh, no,” Peter answered decisively, though he had no idea if the others had decided on one amongst themselves or not.

“Well, that’s something fun to think about then,” Pops said brightly. “You could do…oh, I don’t know, what about the Ultimates? Sounds a lot more peaceful than ‘avenging’ doesn’t it? Or…what about the Legion? Although I suppose that suggests imperialism which is probably not the best thing to be promoting… Maybe Alpha Squadron? Oh, what about Next Wave? That sounds kind of cool—“

“Pops, it’s—it’s ok, really, we’ll figure it out,” Peter said hurriedly.

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry, don’t mind me butting in, it’s not my business,” Pops said. That smile never wavered. “Anyway I don’t want to keep you all from your training. It was nice to meet you.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder before he left and said quietly to him, “I am so proud of you, Peter.”

It took a minute before Peter could move his feet. He was proud. He was so proud. He wasn’t going to be so proud when Fury told him he was an inch away from axing Peter’s whole team before it had even started. Eventually, Peter’s feet started working again. He had a date to get to.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Peter didn’t think he could feel worse as he swung back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—he was still avoiding Harry and didn’t want to even think about going back to the apartment; he’d snuck in through a window and packed a bunch of his stuff weeks ago—to get ready for his date with Gwen, but then he ran into a robbery-in-progress and knew that he would be late.

When the robbers happened to be the Rhino and the Beetle, well, Peter knew he would really be late. The Rhino charged at him on the street; Peter used his web to soar right over his head, but he was knocked out of the air by the Beetle, landing on the ground. He rolled to avoid a knife to the chest—well, more accurately, some kind of long blade that seemed to function in the Beetle’s costume as a “leg” of the Beetle—and then had to pull himself up with his web before the Rhino stomped all over him. Yeah. It was just one of those days.

“What are you running for, Bug-Boy? Not a fan of getting attacked by one of your own?” The Rhino asked. His voice was so deep that, were it not for the whole meta-human thing, Peter would have been convinced that the guy was on ‘roids. Like, a lot of ‘roids.

“Actually, neither beetles nor spiders are bugs,” Peter pointed out as he dodged another attack. He shook his head and tutted. “Aren’t you just another shining example of the failure of the US education system?” Peter dodged a swipe from the Beetle and then used his web, dulling the edge of the Beetle’s blade. “Spiders will eat beetles though, so, there’s a fun factoid of the circle of life for you.”

“Spider beats Beetle,” Rhino said gruffly, “RHINO BEATS SPIDER.” Just as Peter finished dodging the Beetle, he ran smack again into Rhino’s path. He got quite literally bowled over by the giant meta human, and, ow. Peter had gotten his foot stepped on by a horse once as a kid. Clint had some family farm back in Iowa that he still ran as a safe house for them sometimes, and some trusted neighbors still kept up the farm—reaping the profits, of course. They kept horses on the land, and while Peter had gotten along with most of them, one of them was not a fan of his. Peter had thought that hurt—well, he hadn’t met Rhino yet. He found himself sprawled in the street, wheezing, JARVIS making note in his ear of his injuries.

“—three fractured ribs, mild concussion, loss of conciousness for approximately one point five seconds, dislocated left arm,” JARVIS told him with the same calm he told him that his morning coffee was getting cold.

“Thanks for the update,” Peter said, and even he wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Get up, Spider-Man! C’mon, you can do it!” Peter turned, dazed, towards the voice. He realized, with horror, why it sounded so familiar. There was MJ, standing behind a parked car on the sidewalk, her camera partly upraised. Peter leapt into action, using his web to slide him out of the way just as Rhino came back for another charge.

“Get out of here!” he yelled to MJ. She was, genuinely, the only citizen stupid enough to be within a hundred foot radius of the fight. Everyone else had fled as soon as the Rhino and Beetle showed up. Peter had a sneaking suspicion that MJ hadn’t fled—she’d run to the fight.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the Beetle asked in his reedy little voice. He flew straight to MJ, who yelped and tried to run. She got only two steps away before the Beetle had yanked her back with a hand on her arm. He brought another arm around her body, holding her in place. “What a beautiful hostage. How fortunate for us! I think you’ll be letting us go now, Spider-Man.” Peter felt a spike of fear go through him for MJ’s life. What in the hell was she thinking, getting so close? Peter put his hands up.

“Ok. Yup. Yup, you win. Just let her go,” Peter said.

“I think we’ll be taking the pretty thing with us. Insurance policy, you understand,” the Beetle said, and the Rhino laughed a booming laugh.

“Oh hell no,” MJ snapped, and before Peter knew what was happening, MJ had stomped on the Beetle’s foot with all her might.

Apparently, the Beetle’s exo-skeleton armor hadn’t extended to the tops of his shoes, because he hunched over slightly in pain from the blow, and once he did, MJ took advantage. She rammed her elbow back into his face, smashing his nose. He let go of her in a knee-jerk reaction, and she made a run for it.

Well, baffled though he might be, Peter was never one to pause when he saw an opening handed to him on a silver platter.

Five minutes later, the Rhino and the Beetle were safely constrained in his bio-degradable web and in police custody. The jewels they had stolen (which, really, Peter had to huff, jewels? It was so overdone. And jewels weren’t easy to fence—you’d only make a fraction of what they were worth. Only further proof that criminals were dumb) were recovered and returned to the shop. The shop owner thanked Spider-Man profusely, and reassured him that he had “Acts of Super Villains” covered on his insurance. Good thing, Peter figured.

Peter was running very, very late for his date with Gwen, but there was one more thing that he had to do before he met her for it. Shaking his head, Peter walked over to the car behind which MJ was still hanging out, leaning on the front. She was messing with her camera and frowning.

“Excuse me, Miss,” Peter said, trying to keep a straight face—er, voice—while calling MJ miss, “but what in the hell were you thinking, earlier?”

“He scratched my camera lense,” MJ said indignantly, trying to rub the lense with her shirt as if that would magically fix the scratch. “Does he know how expensive it is to replace these things? Ugh. Some people have no respect.”

“Well, I mean, I would say that the fact that he was about to kidnap you a little more concerning and disrespectful but hey, that’s just me,” Peter said. MJ finally looked at him.

“Ugh. And of course now you’re standing here and talking to me, and I can’t even get any proof on camera because he scratched the lense,” MJ said sourly.

“Is that what this is all about? You, trying to get a picture?” Peter asked, puzzled. He really hoped MJ was terrible at detecting familiar voices. He was doing his best to disguise his by making it deeper, but he figured he just sounded like when baby Simba tried to roar like a real lion.

“Of course not,” MJ scoffed. “I told you before, I have a business proposition for you.”

“So…you’re risking your life in the name of…of capitalism?” Peter asked in disbelief. MJ flicked her hair.

“Or journalism. Or ambition. Or something. One of those three,” MJ agreed. “Look, you need a personal photographer.”

“Um. What?” Peter asked. He now understood something he had not before—MJ was completely cracked.

“Have you seen the crap that The Daily Bugle has been spewing about you online?” MJ demanded. “You might be an avenger, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to be nice to you. Especially since you’re still closeted.”

“Closeted?” Peter asked.

“You know, you’ve still got the whole mask thing going,” MJ said, waving a hand impatiently. “Look, you’re new, you’re mysterious, and you don’t always get things done as…uh, efficiently? As some of the other Avengers. So either you get somebody who’s happy to do your PR, or you’re going to have the papers dragging your name through the mud until the Avengers are forced to drop you.”

“The Avengers aren’t going to drop me,” Peter said with certainty. For one thing, he was an excellent super-hero. For another, that would make Christmas dinner pretty awkward.

“Believe what you want! But even if that’s true, do you really want that heat focused on the Avengers? Because I think you don’t,” MJ said. Peter frowned, then remembered he was wearing a mask and she couldn’t see that.

“Look,” Peter said, “It’s just the Bugle being the Bugle. It’ll blow over. Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got plenty of groupies, all right, and I don’t need one nearly getting killed for a conversation.”

“Hey,” MJ said, “I handled myself just fine out there. Like some stupid super villain who thinks beetles are the most menacing thing out there could really kidnap me. Please.” Peter put a hand on his forehead and shook his head.

“There’s just no talking to you, is there? Look, do you have your phone on you?” Peter asked. MJ looked startled.

“What?”

“Do you have your phone?” Peter asked again patiently. MJ fished around in one of her skirt pockets and pulled out the sleek, new model Stark phone that Peter had seen many times before. He took the phone, put an arm around her, and held it up. “Say, ‘Selfie!’” He took a picture and then handed it back to MJ.

“Why did you do that?” MJ asked.

“So you’ll, you know, maybe stay out of fire fights for a while,” Peter replied. “So uh, I’ve got somewhere else to be. Uh, stay in school and off drugs and whatever else superheroes and supposed to say.” Peter saluted to her and then started to walk to the nearest subway station. He couldn't swing with a dislocated arm, but he'd be damned if he'd be any later to his date. He and Gwen had missed their chance to see the movie, for sure. He’d have to take her somewhere really nice for dinner.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a quiet night. Clint and Natasha were, as ever, on call as Avengers, but the only problem reported all night had been handled by Spider-Man practically before any back-up could be called. Clint had made stroganoff for dinner, always his attempt at nodding to his children’s heritage. Natasha had tried to tell him before that Hamburger Helper brand stroganoff could hardly be considered acknowledging their heritage, but Clint cheerfully informed her that it was the perfect blend of Russian and painfully-American. Natasha couldn’t really argue with that. The kids loved it, anyway.

They’d then spent the rest of the evening playing Don’t Wake Daddy and then watching the latest Pixar movie that they had picked up on the way home from work. The kids had been happy and exhausted, and they’d tucked them into bed just a little bit past their bedtimes. Clint and Natasha had ended up back on the couch after that, some sitcom playing in the background while Natasha laid in Clint’s arms, nearly asleep. Tucked away under him, she always felt safe. Clint was safe and stable and home. And what a home they had.

Natasha had never thought herself for the settling down, home-making kind of person. And in many ways, she wasn’t, and she knew that. She wasn’t with the other moms from dance class, sewing tutus and gossiping about the PTA. She rarely drove them to any kinds of practice, and she never nagged them about their homework. Most of the parenting duties fell to Clint, who did them with enthusiasm and love every step of the way—even sewing Ana’s tutu. But this kind of night? Playing games with her children, relaxing with a sweet movie, watching their angelic faces as they fell asleep? They reminded Natasha of why she bothered to do her job. To protect the innocence that she had never been allowed to have. So far, Clint and she were doing a decent job of it. Ana and Will had quite the idyllic childhood, and Natasha felt…lucky, to get to be in their memories as part of that, to be a purely good memory one day—or so she hoped.

She looked up at Clint’s face—sleepy, but satisfied, zoned into the mindless sitcom that played. He wasn’t the kindest, most purely good man Natasha had ever met. That title belonged to Steve Rogers, certified grade A boy scout—though not as much as people generally assumed of him. Natasha knew one or two things about him that she was willing to bet not even Tony knew. But still, Steve was firmly slotted into that category. He was so, thoroughly not Natasha’s type. Clint was good. Clint was sweet and kind. Clint was a family man. But Clint was imperfect. Clint had tasted darkness, Clint knew what it was to hit rock bottom. Clint knew what it was to struggle, to be brainwashed—and not just by Loki. Clint knew what it was like to fight for the other side, to have red in a ledger to wipe clean. He knew all of those things, and he’d fought through it to be the man he was. That was one of the many reasons Natasha loved him.

She would do anything for him. She really, really would. Including go through a pregnancy she didn’t want, to give him the child he so clearly desired. But would it be fair? Not to her—she was a grown ass woman and if she decided to do something for the man she loved, she very well could. But would it be fair for the child? Would it be fair for them to be born with a mother whose only reason for having them was to make their father happy? Could she still love that child, to the degree that it deserved? Would it be fair to Clint, raising that child with the burden of affection falling almost solely to him?

She hadn’t one hundred percent wanted Ana and Will, either. She had, perhaps ninety-five percent wanted them. The other five percent of her remained skeptical, doubtful, fearful. When they were born, the five percent went away. She loved them with her whole heart. Would it work a second time? Could she feel for a third child what she felt for her first two? She was afraid that she wouldn’t since, this time, the percentage she wanted this child was reversed. But was it reversed because she was afraid, or because she didn’t want it? Natasha wasn’t sure.

Perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps none of it would work. But she owed it to Clint—she owed it to herself—to try.

“Clint?” Natasha said. She laid a hand on his cheek. It was warm and stubbly. He looked down at her and smiled.

“Hmm?” he asked.

“I’m having the baby,” Natasha announced. Brief surprised flickered across her partner’s face, but he stifled it quickly. His embrace around her tightened just slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if they were discussing the weather. “I’m glad.”

Natasha settled into his arms and took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could do this. She would do this. And she felt better than she had in weeks.

“Natasha?” Clint said.

“Hm?” Natasha asked.

“I won’t hold you to it,” Clint told her. Natasha smiled, never opening her eyes.

“I know,” she said.

They fell asleep on the couch that night.


End file.
